


Soul Survivor

by ERS



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, M/M, Near Future, Original Slash, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Science Fiction, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERS/pseuds/ERS
Summary: After civilisation crumbles and a large part of humankind is eradicated, the survivors have reverted to savagery. Jasper stumbles upon Reuben; he thinks he has met his soul mate. But Reuben has a dark secret, and further danger looms.
Relationships: OC/OC
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

The soft, pale colour of the wood stood out in stark contrast to the greyish brown of the rest of the fence. My breath caught in my throat. I went forward slowly, carefully, until I was close enough to reach out and touch it. The surface was smooth and still slightly damp, freshly cut timber, sawed lengthwise into a plank to repair the fence where it had broken. Copper nails hammered into the fresh wood. Splinters of bright, almost white birch where the nails had been driven in hard surrounded their bright copper heads. How long since I had seen a sign of constructive human activity? It seemed like years.

I tried to refocus. It was hard to take my eyes away from the small but startling details of the repaired fence. The line of wooden fencing was unbroken, and very high. Swirls of barbed wire threaded through and over it made attempting to climb it seem impossible. I peered at what lay behind it. Something metallic glinted in the sun, barely visible in the thick undergrowth surrounding the trees, brambles and gorse that completely covered the ground directly behind the fence. Tripwires. Even if I succeeded in scaling the fence without ripping myself to shreds on the barbed wire, there was no way I could get through the undergrowth without touching those tripwires, whatever they might trigger. Explosives, an alarm system. Nothing good.

I had walked for days, no, probably months, without seeing another human. That was mainly good, because most other humans I had encountered in the last months, perhaps years, had been feral and dangerous. But I was starved of human company, desperate. Before, I could never have imagined craving for a human word, a touch, just to see another of my own kind. Now it was all I craved despite having come to the conclusion that my own kind are the most dangerous, ruthless, cruel and deadly of all the creatures that ever emerged from a relentless evolutionary process that secured the survival of the fittest, but not necessarily the best.

I read somewhere once that civilisation is but skin deep. That doesn’t seem very profound when you are sitting in front of your television with your laptop on your knee, a cup of hot coffee in your hand and a plate of biscuits on the table. But when the basic props of civilisation collapse, you realise that the only thing humans really value is their personal survival, and that those who fight for survival most effectively are those who do so without any regard for their fellows. It is a short journey from a loss of community and altruism to becoming a species of feral, vicious packs of hunters that kill those who are of no immediate use to the survival of the group. Out go the quiet and hesitant, the thinkers, the communicators, the altruists; the weak, the elderly, the sick. In come the killers, the socially inept, the ruthless predators, the warped, the hatemongers, and there are many of them. They silence the others, one way or another. They do not build and nurture, they destruct and destroy. They survive.

But this was survival of a different kind; at least that was what I hoped. Someone had built and repaired this fence for protection. Whatever was inside the enclosure was being guarded, nurtured; it was the approach to survival I would have hoped for, civilisation rising from the ashes. I had to know what lay behind that fence and whether there were people who, like me, longed for a sense of community, peace and safety among the isolation and desolation.

I decided to walk the length of the fence and look for a way in. It was dangerous, there was someone inside, and that someone was obviously intent on self-defence. I might be seen and killed. Some guns still survived, and there were knives that could be thrown, home-made bows and arrows that could maim or kill. But it was worth the risk. Dying was not the worst thing that could happen to me, but being injured and defenceless was pretty high up on the list of undesirable consequences.

I didn’t walk along the fence directly, but kept to the bushes and trees a distance away so that I at least had a little cover. I walked about two miles before the straight line of the fence stopped to continue at a right angle in the other direction. The countryside was much more open in that direction and there were no trees or bushes to hide in along the way. I threw caution to the wind and walked directly along the fence, hoping to find a way in.

The row of trees and bushes with the trip wires behind the fence were sparser here, and I could catch a glimpse of yellow, which could have been rape or mustard seed, and of knee-high grass. The land looked cultivated as far as I could see it. I hoped I had stumbled on a community of humans who lived a civilised life, and who I could join - if they didn’t kill me before I had a chance to talk to them. If I stayed outside the fence they would shoot me on sight, they would immediately take me for a scout who would lead a band of marauders towards them, or for a lone scavenger. I had to get close enough to see them and speak to them. I was desperate, even being killed outright was preferable to continuing this life of utter loneliness, fear and misery.

The line of fencing seemed unbroken, trailed as it was with barbed wire and fortified with tripwires. I supposed it was checked daily by the inhabitants inside. But as long as I walked, I neither saw nor heard any sign of life beyond that fence. If I hadn’t seen the fresh wood that signified recent repair to the fence, I would have assumed the area was deserted. I thanked my lucky stars for that, because otherwise I might have stumbled straight into the tripwires if I had managed to make it over the fence.

It seemed that my luck was with me yet again. One of the silver birches that lined the other side of the fence had apparently snapped, recently by the look of the wood, perhaps even the night before, the crown resting on a stump a few feet above the ground and thereby providing a bridge over the tripwires gleaming in the ferns below. I stopped, my heart thudding, it seemed to expand with hope. It was a risk. The trunk was not very thick, the tree had not been very old, and getting across it would not only be a balancing act, it was very doubtful whether it would bear my weight without snapping in the middle or rolling off the stump it was currently balanced on. And there was still the issue of scaling the fence to confront.

I loosened the shoelaces of my boots to tie my trousers to my ankles. The denim would afford at least a little protection against the barbed wire, and I wanted to avoid my trousers riding up and leaving my ankles bare. I pulled my old gardening gloves out of my pockets, hopping that the thick leather would save my hands from being too badly ripped by the barbed wire. Shouldering my rucksack, I set my foot on the lowest part of the fence, pushing my foot between the vertical slats with difficulty and pulling myself up.

I could hardly reach the top of the fence, and when I managed to wrap my fingers around it, I felt the barbed wire pierce my gloves. The sharp points were driven into my flesh as I heaved myself up, blood trickling down my wrists and under my sleeves. I managed to set the side of my foot on the top of the fence feeling the barbed wire catch in the fabric. I swung my second foot up and managed to set in upright on the sole. Tears ran down my face from the pain of the barbed wire rending my hands. Taking the weight onto my feet brought short respite, but, frightened of being discovered in such a helpless state, I swung first one, then my second leg over the other side, catching the side of my knee on the barbed wire as I did so. Stifling a scream of pain I ripped my leg away from the wire, the weight pulling my hands down onto the barbs with force. I was dangling directly above the fallen trunk. If I let go and I dropped onto the trunk, my weight would probably snap the wood.

Carefully, so as not to rip the flesh of my hand further, I extracted one hand from the barbs on the top of the fence, holding on with one hand only, the pain excruciating. I willed myself not to rush. Hanging by one arm, I could almost reach the trunk with my feet. It would be a drop of only a few inches. Finger by finger I let go of the top of the fence, the barbed wire rending the delicate skin. Inch by inch my feet came closer to the branch. When I let go completely, the blood trailing down my arm and reddening the sleeve of my sweater, I dropped onto the trunk with both feet as neatly as if I had planned it carefully. The trunk swung, and then it rolled slightly. I held my breath, willing it to stay put.

I had to act quickly, the trunk was bending. It might snap or it might sink so low that it activated the tripwires. In a few short steps I had balanced my way along the trunk and was clear of the undergrowth and the tripwires. I jumped off the log into the clear, hoping that I wouldn’t find myself face to face with the inhabitants, armed with guns or arrows, but there was no one to be seen. There was every evidence of human activity though; I was standing on the edge of a meadow, part of which had been mown, the grass drying in the sun and already filling the air with the sweet fragrance of hay. Two cows grazed some way in the distance. Even more tantalising was the view of a house and barn, half hidden behind poplars, which were swaying in the summer breeze. Relief coursed through me. After months of decay, destruction, loneliness and desolation I felt as if I had returned to civilisation. But the people responsible for this little island of order in a sea of chaos were nowhere to be seen.

When I had got over the shock of being back in a well-ordered environment, I tried to concentrate on the sounds and sights around me. My life depended on my taking in my surroundings quickly, and deciding what to do. Slowly, as if waking up from a dream, I became aware of a swishing sound quite a way off to my right, at the same time as I suddenly began to feel my hands throbbing with pain. Blood was still trickling down my fingers onto the grass below. Gingerly I took off my gardening gloves to look at the ripped palms of my hands and the mangled undersides of my fingers. They were a bloody mess, but they would have to wait. I turned my head towards the noise. There was a haystack, and as I watched I saw someone moving out from behind it, the swish-swish noise made by the steady strokes of a scythe cutting the hay.

My heart jumped at the sight of another human, I hadn’t seen one for at least two months. As far as I could see from a distance, the person with the scythe was male, young, tall and thin. His upper body was bare, a checked shirt was tied around his waist and I could see his lightly tanned skin gleam with sweat when the sun caught it. Unable to resist the temptation I crept closer. Oblivious to my presence, he kept his head down, his back turned towards me. I could see the muscles on his arms strain as he worked the scythe with expert precision, shaking the hair out of his face when the thick, shiny strands must have stuck to his forehead. It was the colour of chestnuts, the light picking out golden highlights where the sun had bleached some strands. His skin looked smooth and silky, I wanted to reach out and touch it. I had been starved of human contact but it was not just that. I hadn’t seen his face yet but I knew it was beautiful; as beautiful as the rest of him.

He mumbled to himself in a low voice, only just audible at the distance I was standing from him. I was still in the shade cast by the line of trees inside the fence, but if he turned and looked, he would see me. It was then that I noticed that there was a gun stuck in his belt, and I became aware of the danger I was in.

I had no idea what I intended to do when I stealthily sneaked up to the haystack and crept down behind it, crouching low so that I was completely hidden. Relying on my sense of hearing, which had been acutely sharpened during my dangerous trek across country, the sound of the scythe cutting the grass told me in which direction he was moving. I had no idea what to do. There had to be other people about, I could not imagine that the carefully tended farm around me was the work of a single man. They might appear suddenly; perhaps I was already being watched from elsewhere. If I approached the man with the scythe he would certainly shoot me without even letting me speak. Strangers were potentially deadly. I would have done the same.

I had no weapon to counter a gun. I did not know who or what the man was. He seemed civilised, working the land, tending cattle, keeping a farm, but perhaps he was just a step away from the feral humans I had encountered on the road, a dangerous, ruthless killer. He was clean and neat, his clothes were fresh and his hair shone in the sun. Most people I had met during the last year and been dirt-encrusted, like I was myself. At some point I gave up even trying to keep clean.

I hadn’t yet even seen his face and even if I had: Looks are deceptive. But I felt that he was different, I felt as if I had met one of the last of the humans who were like those I remembered; kind, decent and loving. I felt it even before I saw his face. But of course it might have been the longing inside me for a human touch, for human kindness, that coloured my perception.

My mind wandering, my stomach hungry, vigilance slipped for a minute and before I could react properly, I realised that the sound of the scythe was right beside me, no time to withdraw around the other side of the haystack, he was directly next to me, his back to me, I could smell him, he smelled of flowers and grass, he smelled clean. I reacted in a split second without thinking: I wrapped an arm around his neck, jerking him backwards and cutting off his air supply, shaking the scythe out of his hand as I did so, and with the other hand I grabbed the gun and pulled it free of his belt, pressing it against his temple and cocking it, the rasping sound it made cut through the stillness of the afternoon. He made a soft, frightened sound in his throat and I could feel him start to shake.

“Don’t be afraid,” I croaked, my voice hoarse with disuse, “I’m not going to hurt you.” He made a disbelieving sound and struggled briefly. I tightened my grip on him. “How many are you?” I asked. He stilled.

“Ten,” he answered sullenly, his voice gentle and soft, “and they should be here any minute.” Instinctively I knew he was lying.

“It’s just you,” I breathed, realisation dawning on me, “you’re alone, aren’t you?” He drew in a frightened breath. “Aren’t you?” I shook him lightly and felt him trembling even worse. “I’m sorry. Don’t be afraid.” I had forgotten how decent human beings behaved around one another because life on the road had brutalised me.

“Just kill me, please,” he said in a flat voice, “do it quickly. Don’t hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt again.” Pity thrilled through my body, an alien sensation, one I hadn’t felt for a long time. I became acutely aware of his warm, smooth skin under my fingers, the back of his shoulder almost against my lips. “Not that, please.” His voice was hollow and fearful, I didn’t know what he meant until I realised that I had pressed my lips against the warm skin of his shoulder blade. I pulled back quickly.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, “I won’t harm you. I haven’t touched another human in months, I don’t know for how long. I just…” He lunged forward and nearly succeeded in knocking the gun out of my hand while breaking free, but I held onto him for dear life and repositioned the gun at his head. “Stop that,” I pushed the muzzle of the gun against his skin hard, “just let me talk to you. I promise that’s all I want. Please.” I still hadn’t seen his face; his back was pressed against my stomach, his profile partially obscured by his thick, brown hair. I could see that his nose was very straight and almost completely in line with his forehead.  
“Let me go,” he insisted.

“You’ll run,” I argued.

“What do you want?” He sounded plaintive. “Do you want this?” He gestured around himself at the farm and the meadow. “Just let me go and I’ll leave it to you.”

“No,” I faltered, “I just want a life, I want things to be the way they were before. I don’t know when I last spoke to another human civilly. I’m lonely, afraid and lost. Let me live here with you.” He laughed, mirthlessly. I felt it rather than heard it.

“Why would I trust you?” he asked bitterly.

“What are you afraid I might do?” I tried to make my voice sound as calm and rational as I could.

“Kill my animals, hurt me or kill me, destroy everything; what every human who has survived seems bent on doing.” He sounded grim and resigned.

“If I wanted to hurt or kill you, I could do it now,” I argued, “what’s stopping me, apart from the fact that I just want to be your friend? Let me stay here with you, I could help you, there’s a lot of work here for just one man.”

“Let go of me,” he answered levelly, “I need to see your face.” I hesitated. I still had the gun, which was pressed to his temple. I loosened my grip around his waist.

“Turn around to face me,” I told him, “slowly.” He turned in my arm until we were facing one another, our noses just inches apart. All I could see were two large, hazel eyes peering at me from under his thick fringe of chestnut hair.

“You’re young,” he exclaimed in apparent surprise, “I thought you’d be older. “ I released my grip on him. “You’re dirty, like they all are.” He sounded contemptuous.

I ignored his remark. “Take a step back,” I ordered. He did so, and looked at me challengingly.

He was the kind of handsome I remembered from when the world was what it used to be like, the handsome you saw on the cover of magazines, or starring in films. In his twenties, certainly not older than thirty, he was tall and lean, with a head of thick, bright brown hair, large, intense eyes, a strong, straight nose and very red, curved lips. He seemed to have regained his poise, perhaps it was because he had seen me and deemed me non-threatening.  
“Your hands are bleeding.” He gestured with his head towards me.

“I hurt them on your barbed wire,” I explained, still staring at him, drinking in his long, smooth-skinned torso, his pectoral muscles, the curves of his long arms and his long, elegant legs. He nodded in acknowledgement.

“How did you get over the tripwires?” He asked conversationally. It seemed strange to be talking quietly and matter-of-factly with a human being after such a long time, a situation made even more bizarre by the fact that I was pointing a gun at him, as if I were forcing him to have a polite conversation with me, which in a way I was.

“A tree had fallen over and the crown fell on top of a tree stump so it made a sort of natural bridge over the tripwires.” He raised his chin, listening and watching me carefully.

“I see,” he said. “Clever of you to notice the tripwires.”

“I’ve encountered that kind of thing before,” I answered, still unable to stop scanning his face and body.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively, as if trying to shield his naked torso from view. “Haven’t you seen a person who washes before?” His tone of voice was harsh. I looked down at myself. I was filthy, my clothes were rags and blood was smeared on my arms and legs. My hair and beard hung in dirt-encrusted strands around my face.

“Not for a long time,” I admitted quietly. I saw the expression on his face soften. I realised he must be disgusted with my looks, the smell of me when I held him. I felt weirdly ashamed.

“Is it that bad out there now?” There was a hint of compassion in his voice.

“Yes,” I answered and then I added: “no, it’s worse. You cannot begin to imagine it.”

“I probably can,” he smiled sadly. “Do you mind telling me your name? I would feel better if I could call you something.”

“Jasper,” I told him, “Jasper Moreland. And yours?”

“Very posh,” he answered with a hint of disdain, “like your accent. I’m Reuben Buxton. Not so posh.”

“You’re very beautiful,” I blurted out, “I’m not just saying that because you look clean and civilised, you really are.” He looked at me with a serious expression on his face.

“Yes, I know,” he answered matter-of-factly, “that’s rather a disadvantage. But never mind. I suppose I could grow a beard like yours.”

“You couldn’t hide it with a beard,” I answered.

“Perhaps not,” he rejoined, and then he sighed. “Listen,” he said, “help me fix that fallen tree and I’ll let you have a hot bath, give you some scissors to trim your beard and some food. Keep the gun on you if it makes you feel better. I just ask one thing of you.” A mixture of relief and joy coursed through my veins. Of course it could be a trick, but I was past caring, really.

“Anything,” I answered hurriedly. He flushed.

“Don’t…” he hesitated. “Don’t hurt me,” he mumbled.

“Of course not.” I wasn’t sure what he meant.

“I mean, don’t touch me, please.” He shivered.

“I understand,” although I wasn’t sure I did, “why don’t you put your shirt on? You must feel cold.” It was hot, it was always hot, the sun was beating down, but I was sure he knew what I meant. He shot me a grateful look, unwound the shirt from his waist and pulled it over his bare upper body, fastening the buttons at the front. I let the gun sink, but I didn’t put it down. I still didn’t trust him. He was tall and although slim, he was pure muscle. He was also not half-starved and exhausted. I was pretty sure he could overwhelm me if he tried. But I was desperate, and he was mortally afraid; that was the wafer-thin advantage I had over him.


	2. Chapter 2

**: Flashback**  
**“Migrants out, stop immigration!” The shouts were so familiar that on the rare occasions that they died down, there almost seemed to be something missing.

I sighed and thanked my lucky stars that our flat was on the third floor. That way our windows weren’t smashed every day, just every third or fourth day, by the stone-throwing protesters on both sides who congregated in the streets.

“The electricity keeps going off!” Anna shouted from the kitchen. Since the gas had cut out completely, we had to make do with an electric hotplate to do our cooking, but the electricity supply was by no means consistent.

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled, “I have to finish my thesis this week, and the battery on my laptop is already low. The electricity never stays on long enough for it to refill.”

“The whole system is on the verge of collapsing,” Anna said angrily, “sometimes I think they are right,” she nodded her head towards the window where outside, the Anti-Immigration League, popularly known as AIL, were still chanting. “There are just too many of us. There is no way we can sustain any more people. They should go back to their home countries and rebuild them.”

“Rebuild what?” I got up and walked to the window, looking down. The two waves of protesters, Pro-Immigrants and AIL, had met in the middle of the street and were now fighting it out with their fists. “Half the coastal areas of the world are under water, and half of Africa is uninhabitable due to drought. You can’t blame them for coming here.” These were arguments I had heard and repeated over and over again. They had lost their persuasiveness even for me. But the alternative was completely unpalatable.

“That’s not our problem,” Anna insisted. I knew she was frustrated and frightened, so were many otherwise decent people whose fear had turned them into proponents of anti-immigration policy. Fear can make animals of us all.

“Oh but it is,” I argued, “You know full well that we bear a large part of the responsibility for climate change.”

“Yes part of it,” Anna laughed bitterly, “not all of it. We’re just a small island.”

“And the European mainland is bearing the brunt of the wave of immigration,” I watched the combatants on the street hurl abuse at one another and stagger around, faces bloodied, “since the government closed the borders and withdrew from the EU.”

“What about China?” Anna came up behind me and looked out. The fistfights had turned into an orgy of bloody mayhem. “Disgusting,” she added, “all of them.”

“China has already taken in half a billion immigrants,” I said, “you know that. The country doesn’t have the infrastructure; they are dying in the streets.”

“’I know, I know. It’s just all so hopeless.” I looked at Anna. There were tears in her eyes. But I hardly saw them. I was scanning the streets for a sign of Luke. He was late, and I was worried.**

*

What do the tripwires do?” I asked.

“Trigger bleach bombs,” my companion answered dryly, rummaging a length of rope out of a cardboard box in the corner of a tool shed. I looked around. Everything was well-ordered and clean. “What’s a bleach bomb?” I stared at his classical profile.

“A mixture of household bleach and drain cleaner. Some of them are bleach with ammonia, whatever I could lay my hands on. They produce noxious gasses that destroy your lungs and can potentially kill you.” He coiled the rope and slung it over his arm. “Maybe we should do something about your hands first.” He looked at them worriedly.

“Let’s get rid of that tree first,” I argued, “I’ll be all right. Maybe you have some gloves I can wear to protect them; I ripped my gardening gloves on that damn barbed wire of yours.” Reuben nodded and rummaged some more, producing two pairs of thick gardening gloves and two filter masks, one of which he handed to me.

“Just in case.” He thrust one into my hand.

“Will it help?” I turned the flimsy looking mask in my hand.

“Not really, but it might give us a few extra seconds to get away.” He smiled wryly and reached up with his long arms to grab an axe, and I couldn’t help admiring his lean body. “Stop it,” he growled without turning around, apparently he knew I was ogling him again.

“Sorry,” ‘I sighed and trotted off behind him, his long legs taking him forward in strides I could not match across the field towards the fence.

We stood in front of the fallen tree, Reuben rubbing his chin and frowning.  
“How do we get that tree off there without triggering your tripwires?” I asked. Reuben shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” he mused, “either we could just roll it off the stump onto the ground and run for it, wait until the air has cleared and then drag the tree out. But there is no guarantee that we would not get some of the gasses in our lungs and believe me, even a little of the stuff can wreak havoc. Or I can balance along the trunk, tie the rope around one of the strongest branches, balance my way back and we try to pull the tree up vertically without it rolling off the trunk and setting off one of those bleach bombs.”

“Let me,” I intervened, “I’m shorter and lighter than you are. Balancing along that trunk isn’t easy and if you’re not careful it will roll off the stump or even bend and touch the ground.” He looked at me doubtfully. “I’ve done it before and succeeded,” I argued, “and I am after all the interloper here. I’ll prove to you that I’m worth keeping here.” Reuben grunted.

“Worth keeping,” he muttered sarcastically, but he shot me a look full of softness. “I don’t know.”

“Look, you’re too tall, and you may be thin, but you are not as light as I am. I’m the obvious choice. Give me that rope.” I took it out of his hands and managed to edge along the tree trunk, balancing carefully, my eye on Reuben’s tripwires. I threaded the rope behind one of the strongest looking branches, tying it tightly in place and shuffled sideways until I was back and the end of the trunk and could jump off to safety. Reuben had both hands around the trunk and was holding it in place. He hadn’t spoken a word all that time; he seemed to be holding his breath. When I jumped off the log, he gave me a shy but dazzling smile.

Together we managed to hoist the fallen tree free of the tripwires, and let it fall onto the grass. Reuben looked at me with a satisfied grin on his face.  
“We can saw that up for firewood,” he declared. I held up my hands, I could feel them bleeding inside the work gloves.

“I probably wouldn’t be much help,” I answered. A worried look crossed his face.

“Of course, I am sorry. We should see to your hands straight away. Come with me.” He bustled on ahead of me and I followed slowly, glad that he had apparently decided to trust me, at least a little. I still had the gun in the waistband of my trousers, and I couldn’t help wondering how much of his solicitousness was due to that fact. Walking behind him, I noticed the smooth skin on his beautiful long neck. I longed to catch up to him, slide my arm from behind around his waist and kiss the back of that gorgeous neck. He probably would have killed me if I had tried, though, unless I held a gun to his head. I perished the thought. I liked him, he didn’t deserve mistreatment, and anyway, I wasn’t the type. Not really. I had killed men, but only through necessity. Rape was unacceptable in any case. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm Reuben. Such a pity though that he had made it absolutely clear that he was not interested in me.

I followed Reuben towards the huge barn that was to the left of a cobbled yard, opposite the old, sprawling farmhouse and its neat garden full of flowers, vegetables and herbs. Chickens were scratching around in the corners, and the large door was thrown open. We went around the side and into a smaller door that led into a separate room.  
“This is my wash and bathing room,” Reuben explained, “seeing as the water in the bathroom doesn’t work anymore.” He gestured towards the door.” See that pump?” I nodded. “There’s a well underneath it that was dug before this place ever had running water.” He turned back, and opened the door of a large and ancient Aga stove and, taking a box of matches off the shelf, lit the kindling inside.

“Where did you get the matches?” I asked.

“I have a small store of them,” he smiled.

“And what are you doing? Isn’t it hot enough without heating that stove?” I frowned at him. He gestured towards the assorted large pots on top of the stove.

“I’m heating water,” he explained, “we need warm water to clean your hands properly, and you could do with a bath anyway, quite frankly. I’ve got an old bathtub and lots of soap, I’ll just heat the water and leave you to it. I’ve got some clothes you can wear. All right?”

“That sounds like heaven,” I said, my voice nearly breaking. The thought of a bath and clean clothes was almost too good to believe. He looked straight at me then, and his eyes were full of pity.

“We can talk, later, if you want,” he said gently. I took the gun out of my belt and held it out to him.

“I’m sorry,” I put the gun into his hand, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m desperate. Please don’t send me away.” He frowned in puzzlement.

“I’m not going to send you away, why would I?” He cradled the gun in his large, long-fingered hands.

“I had the impression that you didn’t want me here.”

“I thought you were a marauder, I didn’t think that there were any normal people left.” He blinked, his eyes shiny.

“Perhaps we are the last two,” I put out a hand to touch his arm. He pulled back immediately and a look of panic crossed his face.

“Sorry,” he said almost immediately, “I know you mean no harm but you can’t touch me. At all.” I pulled my hand back.

“I forgot, of course I won’t.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes so I went on carefully, “it might help you if you talk about it.”

“I can’t,” he answered briefly, “look, the water is steaming. I’ll pour it into the bath. No, don’t you,” he cautioned as I reached out to take hold of a large saucepan of water, “your hands are damaged enough.”

Lying in the warm, soapy water in the bathtub he had set in a corner of the yard in the shade, I felt unbelievably happy. A year ago I would never have believed that such a simple thing as having a bath would fill me so full of joy. True, my hands stung when I forced them into the water, and so did my legs where I had ripped them on the barbed wire. But it was a good hurt, clean and healing.  
Reuben had disappeared when I began to undress pretty suddenly, leaving me alone with my suspicions as to the reason for his odd behaviour. Several chickens milled around the yard, scratching idly and sitting in the shade. A cow mooed in the distance and a couple of sheep baaed from nearby. I could almost forget that the world around had descended into chaos.  
I must have closed my eyes for a minute, because when I opened them, Reuben was solicitously laying out a towel and a selection of trousers and t-shirts on the top of an old wooden table that was standing next to the barn.  
“Thanks”, I said, and he jumped.

“I thought you were asleep,” he answered in an accusing tone.

“I just shut my eyes for a minute,” I answered. He gave me a critical once-over.

“Your hair still looks filthy; you should give it a trim. Do you want to keep that beard?”

“Yes and no,” I smiled.

“I’ll get some scissors.” Again Reuben disappeared in the direction of the old farmhouse, and re-emerged with a pair of scissors and a cut-throat razor. He placed a mirror on the table and put the razor down beside it. Then he looked at me again, weighing the scissors in his hand. “Maybe I should do it; it’s difficult to cut your own hair, and I doubt you can manage with your hands ripped to shreds like that.” He threaded his hands through his own thick, shiny hair nervously.

“If you would,” I answered. He edged closer, then gingerly reached out and took a matted lock of my hair in his long-fingered hand.

“I’ll just cut it off, and then we might be able to comb it through so that I can trim it properly.” He looked nervous.

“Don’t worry, we can shave it off, I don’t mind how it turns out.” He nodded, and cut off the first bundle of hair. When he had trimmed it all off, he produced a comb and began to cut it again, combing it at the same time. He stood back critically, and looked at my hair from all sides.

“Looks all right,” he decided. “Do you want to shave? I’ve got shaving cream, and I can hold the mirror for you.”

I was a bit wary of using the cut-throat razor, it was very sharp but I managed to shave without nicking my skin once.  
“How do I look,” I asked him teasingly. He had been staring at my face.

“How old are you?” He asked instead of giving me an answer.

“Twenty-four,” I answered, “do I look older?” He shook his head.

“Younger, rather.” He smiled shyly. “I’m glad you took the gun before I could shoot you. I would have killed you, you know.”

“I realise that,” I said, “I’m rather glad that I’m still alive, too.”

I watched while Reuben emptied the water out of the bath and scrubbed it clean. He was very neat and tidy. Then I followed him into the old farmhouse, where he told me he kept a supply of first aid equipment and would tend to my wounds.  
Reuben’s large, long-fingered hands were unbelievably gentle as he dressed and bandaged my hands, and I noticed that he seemed to have no problem touching them as long as I myself made no move to initiate contact. He also dressed the wound on my shin where I had torn myself on the barbed wire. Then he stood up and looked down at me.  
“How do you feel?” He asked.

“Better than I have for months,” I said, “clean, shaven, hair cut, I feel almost human again.” A grin spread over his face.

“I’ll bet you’re hungry,” he smiled, “I could hear your stomach grumbling.”

“I’ve learned to ignore it.” I rubbed my stomach. “But I would like something to eat. I don’t know when I had the last proper meal. I usually scavenge what I find, carrots growing wild, strawberries, sometimes I’ll make a fire if I’m feeling safe enough and put some potatoes in the ashes; that kind of thing. Unfortunately I was born and lived all my life in London. I’m not too good surviving in the countryside.”

“You seem to have done a pretty good job,” Reuben answered, leading the way into the kitchen, “how long have you been living rough? A year? two?”

“Must be closer to two years,” I mused. I didn’t want to think about it too hard. I didn’t want to remember.

“Why didn’t you stick to the towns and villages? There must have been food around there, at least at first.” Reuben busied himself opening containers and cupboards.

“I did at first, but it got too dangerous. There were too many other people around, marauders, gangs. I preferred to starve rather than be murdered by them.” Reuben nodded.

“I understand,” he said, “I understand perfectly.” And with that he put a loaf of bread on the table, a pat of butter on a saucer, a jar of strawberry jam, a basket of hard boiled eggs, a piece of cheese and a jug of milk. “The stove in the wash room is still hot,” he explained, picking up a large saucepan, “I’ve got some vegetable soup in here that I’ll just heat up.” He looked at me. “Anything wrong? Just eat.” I felt tears running down my cheeks. Unable to speak I just stared at him. “It’s all right,” he said gently, “you’re here now.” He pulled a cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. “When I come back with the soup I don’t want to see a crumb of that bread left, understand? I made it myself. If you don’t eat it up, I will take it as an insult.” He grinned, and carried the saucepan out of the door towards the washroom.

I ate until my stomach hurt. Reuben sat with me and munched on a piece of bread and butter which he used to mop up the remnants of the soup.  
“Do you feel better now? He asked quietly when I had finished the last of the bread.

“I feel bad because I ate all your food,” I admitted. He smiled.

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” He began to clear the table, but when I rose to help him, he waved me back down. “You sit down for a while and digest,” he counselled, “you might find you have a bit of a stomach ache. You can help me tomorrow. I’ll do this alone today.” Reuben put the rest of the food in the larder, and carried the dishes out to wash them in the washhouse. When he returned he was carrying a bottle of dark liquid and two glasses.

“Blackberry wine,” he explained, brandishing the bottle, “I don’t usually drink, but then I don’t usually have company. But I think this is a cause for a small celebration.”

I followed Reuben into the next room, which was a comfortable living room with an old sofa and two large chairs. A television stood in the corner, almost as if nothing had happened and the last couple of years had been nothing but a bad dream. I half expected Reuben to turn it on and for us to watch the news. Reuben noticed me glancing at the TV.  
“Somehow I haven’t had the heart to discard it,” he said somewhat shamefacedly, “it’s hard to give up hope altogether and to have to admit that things will never be as they were before.”

“It is,” I agreed, “and then again, who knows? I never thought that I would ever be sitting down in a living room, having a perfectly civilised conversation with another human being ever again. And yet here I am.”

We must be thankful for small blessings I suppose,” Reuben added, uncorking the bottle and smelling it.

“I consider meeting you – and your blackberry wine – a rather large blessing actually,” I teased. He smiled.

“You’re right, it is an enormous blessing really,” he nodded, pouring the wine into the glasses which released its heady, fruity aroma.

I couldn’t say when I last had alcohol. Probably when I was still trying to get by in London, looting the abandoned shops there and trying to avoid the gangs of murderous thugs on the rampage. So after we had shared the bottle, I felt decidedly tipsy and so it seemed did Reuben, who was giggling for no apparent reason. I was sober enough to keep my distance though, as I could feel how wary of me he still was.  
We decided to go to bed then although it was not late. Reuben told me that we would have to be up early to feed the animals and anyway, I was exhausted. The idea that I would be sleeping in a real bed that night made me deliriously happy.  
Reuben had an assortment of oil lamps, and he lit one and gave it to me to take up, and selected another for himself.  
“Rather Victorian, I know,” he said, “but they do the job.”

Reuben led me into a large bedroom with a double bed, and proceeded to take bed linen out of a cupboard. Between us, we made the bed and I couldn’t resist just letting myself fall onto it. The feeling of the mattress and the soft pillows was heaven. Reuben smiled at me as if he was just realising how wonderful sleeping in a bed really was.  
“My bedroom is next to yours,” he said as he left the room, “there’s a bucket next to the toilet in the bathroom over there. So far it seems to work all right if you just flush with the bucket of water. The cistern doesn’t fill up any more because the water system has broken down. But the drains are still unblocked.”

“Reuben?” He stopped and turned on his heel, looking at me questioningly. “Thanks,” I continued, “I promise you won’t regret giving me this chance to live with you here. I’ll do whatever it takes to show you that you can trust me.” Reuben smiled shyly.

“I’m glad of the company,” he answered warmly, “good night.”

I slept like a baby, that is, until a scream ripped through the silence and woke me, leaving me shaking and sweating with fear. For a moment I thought I was back in London, when screams of terror and pain regularly pierced the night and where I rarely slept more than a few minutes because fear kept me constantly awake. It had been better in the country, especially during the last few months, because I had met nearly no one at all, but then it had been hunger and discomfort that had kept me awake. But I was lying in the bed that Reuben had prepared for me, my belly full of his food and a strange feeling of elation because he was there. There was another cry of anguish from the next room – Reuben. I turned up the oil lamp, leapt out of bed and ran to his bedroom door where I could hear another cry, then a sharp intake of breath and the sound of sobbing. I tried to open the door, but it was locked.  
“Reuben!” I shouted. There was someone in there with him, there had to be. Someone had broken into the farm, come into the farmhouse and was locked in the bedroom with Reuben. I rattled the door handle, then I put down the lamp, took a pace back and slammed my shoulder into the door. It was solid oak and hardly budged.

“Stop!” I heard Reuben’s voice from the other side and the sound of a key turning. “I’m opening the door,” he said.

He stood in front of me, dark eyes wide and wild in his pale face, tears on his cheeks.  
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to see behind him into the room. He blocked my view.

“I had a bad dream,” he mumbled.

“Why is your door locked?” Reuben didn’t answer me. He looked down at his naked feet and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “You don’t trust me, do you?” I asked gently. “I’m not going to come into your bedroom at night and kill you or whatever else it is you are afraid of. I think it would be wiser if you left your door open.” Reuben nodded, but did not meet my eyes. “What was your nightmare about?” Reuben just shrugged. “You know it would be easier for you if you talked to me about whatever is troubling you,” I tried to reason with him.

“I know,” he answered in a hoarse, trembling voice, but I can’t. I cannot speak of it.”

“Let me bring you back to your bed,” I suggested as matter-of-factly as I could, “I’ll sit with you for a moment until you go back to sleep. Then I will return to my bed.” Reuben hesitated. “Look, Reuben,” I said a little more sharply than I had intended, “if I wanted to hurt you, or kill you, I could have done so already. I just want to help you. Now go back to bed.”

“I can go to bed alone,” Reuben argued sullenly.

“I’m going to stay with you until you go to sleep,” I told him firmly. He hovered in the doorway, apparently unwilling to let me into his room. Then he sighed and stepped to one side.

“You’re not going to give up, are you,” he huffed, “all right then. But don’t you dare say a word.”

“I won’t, I promise,” I said, puzzled, as I stepped into his room, holding up the lamp while he retreated to his bed. “Oh Reuben,” I couldn’t help exclaiming, and pity swept over me like a wave.

Reuben’s room was half child’s room, with well-worn cuddly toys, a train set and model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling, and, even more heart-breakingly, half an altar to his parents, at least I assumed that the attractive older couple smiling down at me from a multitude of photographs plastered all over the room had to be his parents. Reuben looked very much like his mother, but he had inherited his height from his father.  
“Don’t say a word,” Reuben cautioned me again in a low, growling voice, “don’t ever say a word about this.”

“You need to talk about it,” I said carefully.

“I can’t,” Reuben snapped.

“It’s all right,” I soothed, putting out a hand to touch his arm, but then withdrawing it again quickly, “go to bed, I’ll wait here until you are asleep again. And leave the door open in future. I was afraid that you were being murdered.”

“Sometimes I wish I had been,” Reuben whispered in a voice so low that I was not sure I had heard him correctly. But he got into bed and closed his eyes while I sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating his beautiful, sad face in the light of the oil lamp he kept burning on the bedside cabinet all night. It was not long before he was breathing evenly, and I could go back to bed, and sleep the rest of the night peacefully and in comfort.


	3. Chapter 3

Reuben and I soon slipped into an easy routine. He often told me how hard it had been to work the farm on his own, and how thankful he was that he could share the burden with me. My hands soon healed, and we spent our days getting up at dawn to feed the animals and let them out of the barn to graze or forage, tend to the crops, cut hay, and patrol the fence once a day. The farm was about five acres, which was a lot of land for two people to sustain. Reuben had ten chickens and a rooster, five ducks, two sheep, two goats, and two cows with a bull calf, and also a bee hive. Most importantly he had a horse, an old bay mare called Molly, who wandered around the farm, often following Reuben aimlessly. She could pull a plough, and Reuben or I would ride her bareback along the fence to check for damage. Reuben told me that the farm had been a lot larger, but that he had not been able to fence more of the area in. He had used a natural line of trees and hedges to work along, and had felled trees from outside the area to make the fence.

Reuben also had fruit trees and a large vegetable garden that he was constantly weeding. He refused to eat any meat but wouldn’t tell me why. He said that he couldn’t face breeding animals to eat, but he also baulked when I suggested snaring and eating some of the rabbits which were so plentiful on the land and on whom he waged a constant war to keep them out of his vegetable garden. So we lived very well on bread, honey, porridge, milk, cheese, vegetables and fruit. I had never been so fit, what with the fresh, healthy food and the exercise outdoors all day.  
There was a large pond on the farm, but even here Reuben would not hear of me catching the fish I could see glinting under the surface of the water when we swam there.  
Reuben was still extremely secretive and had dark moods, when he would withdraw completely and hardly talk at all. Even on good days he spoke very little. It took a lot of time and patience, but after several weeks he stopped shying away from me like a startled horse as soon as I raised a hand or touched him in any way. After a while I could pat his arm or his hand without a sharp intake of breath and a rebuke on his part, and once he had suffered me to extract a spider from his thick, unruly hair (carefully, without killing it), he didn’t seem to mind if I stroked his fringe out of his eyes while he was working. He was still very wary of me, though, and would bark at me angrily if he caught me looking at him in a way he found inappropriate. But mostly we got along well and he seemed relaxed in my company, and at times even happy.  
At first I found it very hard to keep my eyes and my hands off Reuben, he was in every way the type of man I had always dreamed of meeting. It was not just the fact that he was easily the best-looking male I had ever seen. When we swam together in the pond I took great care to look everywhere but at Reuben. Apart from what was obvious to the eyes, he had the sweetest disposition of anyone I had ever encountered, notwithstanding his occasional black moods, and he was gentle, patient and fundamentally kind. But he was also strong, practical and extremely hard-working, he would labour until he nearly dropped and long after I had given up. Underneath that gentle and soft-spoken exterior was a will of steel ; something that had no doubt helped him to survive whatever it was that haunted him and that he refused to talk about.  
When I first came to live on the farm I was hopeful that Reuben and I would become a couple after he had overcome his distrust of me. I didn’t know if he was interested in men at all, but I had the idea that he might be. After a few weeks though I resigned myself to the fact that if at all, I would have to be very careful how I proceeded with Reuben. I got the definite feeling that he was very fond of me; he showed me his affection in the way he knew best, by feeding me, clothing me, looking after my health and generally protecting me from harm. I realised it was an effort for him not to pull away if I touched his arm or slapped his shoulder, but he made the effort for me.  
When Reuben was in one of his moods, he would go off to a small copse on a far corner of the farm. I sensed that he wanted to be alone and never followed him there. More than that, although he never told me not to, I got the distinct impression that he did not want me to go there, so I didn’t. I was curious, but I didn’t want to upset him and I hoped that he would disclose more about what was troubling him as time went by. Doing something that could make him distrustful would not be helpful.  
On the opposite side of the farm, near to the fence, was a patch of wasteland that looked as if it had been recently dug over, but was choked with weeds. It seemed to me to be a perfect spot to cultivate, and perhaps grow some of the seed potatoes Reuben had stored in the barn, but when I suggested it Reuben flared up angrily and told me never to set foot on that patch of land again. When I asked him what the problem was he refused to answer, so I let the subject drop for the time being. Even in his most accessible moments, when we sat together on the couch just before going to bed, there were some subjects I just could not broach with him unless I wanted him to immediately clam up, pull away from me and retire wordlessly to bed.  
I tried to tell Reuben the story of what had happened to me after the infrastructure in London had broken down, to encourage him to speak of his experiences, but he would get agitated very soon and invariably suffered from bad dreams afterwards, so I gave up trying to tell him anything about my past. I would have liked to have spoken about it, because it haunted me, too, but Reuben was unable to offer me the support that I needed, and unable to accept the support that I was sure I could give him. Any progress we made was very tiny, and I had to be content with that. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Reuben was taciturn, stubborn and a little bit contrary by nature.  
There was a gate in the fence, completely hidden and impossible to find if you didn’t know exactly where it was. When I asked Reuben when he had last left the enclosure of the farm, he scratched his head.  
“About three months ago I guess,” he said, “several weeks before you came. I will have to go again soon, as we are running low on lamp oil, matches and soap.”

“And you can get those out there?” I asked, puzzled. Reuben nodded.

“I can show you,” Reuben confirmed, “really I would rather that you stayed here while I am gone, but I want to show this to you, so that if anything should happen to me, you will know where to go.” He spoke drily, but I didn’t like to hear his words.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” I countered almost angrily. Reuben smiled at me.

“I might be ill,” he answered gently.

“What is this place we will be going to, anyway?” I was afraid, and that made me irritable. I felt safe inside the enclosure with Reuben, and didn’t want to reacquaint myself with life outside that haven.

“The village,” Reuben explained, “or what is left of it. There is a village store, and some houses, and there are still some supplies left that the marauders didn’t find or didn’t want. That’s where I stock up on matches, soap, oil, fire lighters, candles and things we can’t make ourselves. I want you to know where that is.”

Summer was coming to an end, and the leaves were turning yellow and red. Autumn would not bring much cooler weather, but over the last few years it had brought deluges of rain, so Reuben was in a hurry to get the hay into the barn and the corn harvested. He also wanted to get to the village and back before the fine weather broke.  
We decided to go to the village on a quiet day in August that already had an autumnal feel in the air. The seasons had shifted over the past decade, Autumn seemed to come earlier every year, as did spring. Winter, such as it was, was just wet and stormy. It was never cold enough for snow.  
Reuben handed me a large backpack, and took another for himself.  
“Is it far?” I asked. He almost never offered any information if I didn’t ask.

“Just an hour’s walk,” he shrugged.

“Why don’t we take Molly,” I suggested, “we could carry more that way.”

“Too risky,” Reuben responded, “we need to keep away from the roads, just in case. We’ll cut across the fields and woods. I hadn’t seen any human activity around here for quite a while, and then you appeared. You never know who might be around. Best keep out of sight.”

“Reuben?”

“Hmm,” he answered without looking up. I didn’t speak. “What?” He stopped what he was doing and lifted his head, fixing me with his large brown eyes. I smiled at him and reached out to touch his hair gently.

“Nothing,” I said. He shot me a puzzled smile, and finished adjusting his backpack. He knew what I meant, and that was enough.

Being outside the farm was a very strange experience, thrilling, frightening, and a bit like losing my footing for a while. I wondered if Reuben felt the same way, but he was trudging along with a frown on his face, lost in his own thoughts, and I knew him well enough now to leave him in peace. After we had walked for an hour, keeping to the woods and rough land, I could see a church tower.  
“That’s it,” Reuben confirmed when he noticed the direction I was looking. “Not far now. Funny, it seemed so close in the car. But then it’s rough going here now with no tractors to clear the paths. Nature has a way of creeping back very quickly if you stop inhabiting and cultivating the land.” He gestured to a large farmhouse and barn to the right.

“That used to be the Manningtree’s farm,” he explained.

“Did they leave?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. Reuben looked away, his voice sounded hollow.

“Dead,” he said, “I buried them. Murdered.”

“I’m sorry.” I brushed his arm lightly, hoping he would not pull away and would interpret the gesture as one of comfort. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at me, either. He didn’t speak until we had come to the outskirts of a small village that must at one time have been home to about 500 people. All gone, of course.

“This is Trougham,” Reuben whispered, “or at least it used to be. My family come from here or hereabouts, they go back generations. I suppose I’m the only one left now.” He sighed and passed a hand over his brow. “We have to be careful,” he warned, “if there is anyone in the vicinity, they are bound to be here, searching for something to take. There’s no more food, that’s all long gone.” He gave me a smile. “Luckily we don’t need food.” I answered his smile.

“No, we don’t.”I really wanted to hug him, I could see how desperately unhappy he was, but I knew I couldn’t without upsetting him even more. I cursed a fate that had made us both so in need of comfort, and had made him so unable to either administer, or accept it. I felt like a man dying of thirst in full view of a spring of fresh water, but just unable to reach it to quench my thirst.

Despite his height, Reuben could move almost noiselessly. I followed him over the church wall and into the graveyard, his eyes diverted by one of the gravestones with his surname engraved on the white stone. I thought at first that it must be his parents, but after seeing the dates realised that these would probably be his grandparents. He made no remark though and did not stop, so I followed him, ducking behind the stones, until we came close to the front porch.  
“They looted the church,” Reuben said bitterly in a low voice, “there wasn’t really anything valuable in there, but they just took what they could carry and destroyed the rest. They tried to burn it down but the old building is too strong for that.” He finished with a note of pride in his voice. I felt the tears prick my eyes. I’ve never been religious, but the sheer barbarity of trying to destroy an ancient building, the centre of a community where people come to mourn their dead, to celebrate births and marriages, brought back memories of the terrible things I had seen in London. I must have made a noise because Reuben stopped in his tracks and looked back at me. I had never really cried in front of him except for on that first day when tears of gratitude and relief ran down my cheeks, in fact I hadn’t cried properly for months. What I had seen had hardened me so much that it was impossible to let the pain out. But his words had suddenly loosened something inside me, and I sobbed.

Reuben stared at me, apparently at a loss. Then he retraced his steps and squatted down next to me.  
“I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice, “I’m always so lost in my own grief that I forget you have sorrows of your own.” Tentatively he moved closer to me, and very slowly leaned his forehead against mine. I held my breath, trying not to move so that I didn’t scare him off. He had never offered a physical gesture of affection before. “Come on,” he said and I could feel his breath ghost over my cheek, “let’s get this over with. I’m glad you’re here; this is always very difficult.” With an encouraging nod he led the way back to the porch and out onto the street of the little village, where we waited, hidden in the shadow of the old flint wall, to see if there was anything moving that might be of danger to us.

Marauders had been here, there were signs of destruction and wilful damage. But more than that, it was as Reuben had said of the farm we had passed, nature had begun to reclaim the place. Soothing ivy grew over the rubble, and wild roses trailed the torn-off doors and smashed windows as if they were trying to soften the brutality. A fox trotted across the street and darted us a suspicious look.  
“It looks deserted,” Reuben said, “otherwise the animals wouldn’t be so bold. They are a lot tamer now that there are fewer humans around to disturb them. I suppose our loss is their gain.”

Our first stop was at the village store. The sign that originally hung above the door and window was half torn off and covered in ivy, and the door had been torn off and was lying on the ground. Nasturtiums had half covered it. Inside, everything that could be moved had been upturned. Reuben shrugged wordlessly at me, and led the way to the back of the shop where there was a little room. He took off his backpack and began to scoop bars of soap into it.  
“Apparently soap is of no interest to the travelling marauders,” he said contemptuously, “they took everything that was edible, but no soap.” He picked up three packets of washing powder and four bottles of washing-up liquid. “It is important to keep clean,” he explained, “there are no doctors to administer antibiotics or antiseptic creams if we get sick or hurt ourselves. People don’t understand that.” I thought of the scores of people who had died of quite simple illnesses and wounds and nodded.

“I think in the mad dash to secure food, people forgot everything else.” I picked up a box of fire lighters. “Shall I take these?” Reuben nodded. “There are some matches under the counter, “ he told me, “just shove some of those into your bag as well. While we are on the subject of illnesses, we’ll go into some of the houses and have a look in the bathrooms for some painkillers and other medication. I’m running a bit low. You can keep an eye open for anything else we might use. You can look around with fresh eyes.”

“I suppose you knew all the owners of those houses,” I said hesitantly. Reuben stopped and looked at me.

“I knew them, and many of them were family and friends. But they are all dead now, and I like to think that they would be glad to be able to help me – even from beyond the grave so to speak.” Reuben smiled to show that he was joking, but there was a catch in his throat that suggested otherwise.

We went into one of the little flint cottages, it was trashed and completely destroyed inside, but once it must have been the home of an elderly lady. Crocheted placemats lay discarded and dirty on the ground, together with broken ornaments; china cats, a vase, empty frames and a souvenir from some seaside resort. Some of the photographs that must have been set out on the fractured oak dresser in front of me lay scattered, torn, soiled and ripped on the floor. Half poking out from under the dresser door was the photo of a child, startlingly whole and clean, one brown, serious eye looking up at me from under a chestnut fringe. I went down on my knees in front of the dresser and carefully opened the door to extract the photograph. I was right. It had to be Reuben, aged about ten or eleven, dressed in his school uniform, unruly hair smoothed down as much as possible, and a look of utter disgust at the proceedings on his face. I had to laugh at his expression of righteous indignation at his predicament . At that moment Reuben came into the room.  
“I haven’t heard anyone laugh for a long time,” he said, and I realised he was right. I didn’t know when I had laughed the last time, or heard a laugh. “What’s so funny?” He knelt down next to me, looked at the photograph that I held up to him and his mouth curled into a smile.

“Oh I hated having to have my photo taken,” Reuben grinned, “especially in my school uniform. The humiliation!”

“So it is you,” I stated triumphantly, “I knew the minute I spotted that baleful eye looking up at me.”

“That’s me all right,” Reuben confirmed, “this was my Auntie Edna’s house.” He paused and stared at the open door of the dresser. “Hello, what’s that?” He reached inside the dresser and pulled out a large, blue package. He clutched it to his breast.

“What is it?” I asked. He held it out for me to see.

“Tea, silly,” he proclaimed, “one hundred and sixty teabags, unopened, vacuumed-packed, sheer heaven. Thank you Auntie Edna!”

“Tea,” I echoed, “funny how something that used to be so mundane seems like the greatest luxury.”

“When we get back,” Reuben said, eyes twinkling, “we’ll put the kettle on and have a cup of tea with bread and honey. How does that sound?”

“I don’t think anything at all could possibly sound better,” I smiled at Reuben, enjoying his delight. I packed the tea in my backpack and also took the photograph with me. I couldn’t bear to leave it.

Reuben ribbed me a great deal because I had taken the photograph of him back with me, but secretly I think he was pleased. After my little outburst in the graveyard, he seemed to make a big effort to be more open and communicative. He had his moods when he would stride off to his copse to stay for an hour or two, but he also tried to be more open and easier to talk to. He also began to relax around me, no longer stiff and uptight, afraid that I might touch him. Sometimes when we were sitting on the couch in the evenings, the best time of the day for me, he would tentatively touch my hand with his and sometimes let it settle there for a moment.  
The nightmares seemed to get less frequent, but I still couldn’t get him to talk to me about what was troubling him, and he still avoided asking me about my experiences. Then one morning something unexpected happened. He had been quiet at breakfast, then, while we were clearing away the breakfast things, he suddenly looked at me piercingly and said: “Who’s Luke?” I stared at him with alarm.  
“Why do you ask?” I felt my mouth go dry and my stomach do a slow roll.

“You called out his name last night,” Reuben explained. We still slept with both our doors open so that I could hear when Reuben had a bad dream. “It woke me up. I went to have a look at you, but you were fast asleep. Who is he?”

“I...” then I stopped myself. I had been about to say that I would rather not talk about him, Reuben’s stock answer whenever I asked him a question about his past. “My boyfriend,” I said instead. Reuben nodded as if that was the answer he had expected.

“Where is he now?” Reuben persisted.

“I don’t know,” I answered, something curling up inside me, “dead most probably.” Reuben was silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, sidling up to me until our shoulders were touching, “maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”

“One evening, he just didn’t come home,” I choked.

“I’m sorry,” Reuben repeated helplessly, putting a hand on mine, “you don’t have to talk about it.”

*

**„Luke should have been home an hour ago.” I stood at the window, staring down at the road outside. Even if he had been right outside the house I would have been hard-pressed to see him, the street was packed with people, smoke was rising where rubbish and paper had been set alight and Molotov cocktails thrown, while the crowd below was just a heaving, churning mass.  
“He probably can’t get through the demonstrations,” Anna came to stand next to me, “probably caught up in the crowd somewhere.”

That’s just what I’m afraid of,” I said darkly, “it’s dangerous out there, and once night falls, nobody knows what will happen.”

“Luke will manage,” Anna patted my shoulder, “he always does.” And of course she was right, Luke, a year younger than me, but always cleverer, smarter, more cheerful and more responsible; nothing could happen to Luke, could it? Athletic and fit, he played rugby with boyish exuberance, his tall, broad-shouldered body surprisingly nimble and fast as he sped over the pitch. I loved to watch him, I loved his laugh, his jokes and his indomitable spirit; I loved him. Versatile and confident, sex with him was a revelation that I indulged in as often as possible. We never quarrelled; you couldn’t quarrel with Luke, because he would just shake it off and laugh. Sometimes that was irritating, but mostly it was fine. It was irritating when I was sure that he was having the occasional quiet one-night-stand on the side; but I could never be certain because he would tell me I was imagining things and laugh, and then go out of his way to make me laugh, too.

But evening came and Luke was still not home.

“I’m going out to look for him,” I told Anna. I had a vision of Luke lying somewhere, hurt and in pain, unable to get home, and helpless.

“You mustn’t do that!” Anna grabbed my arm, “you’ll never find him in that mob, and you might get into trouble yourself! Those are beasts out there, look at them brawling! They are destroying everything good about this country, everything we fought to protect.”

Anna, whose parents had come to England from Estonia when she was a child, Anna, who was studying history and was our flatmate and friend, was the biggest patriot in the whole of England. Nobody loved the country her parents had adopted as their home as much as Anna.

“I must go Anna,” I argued, “he may be hurt. I can’t just stay here.”

“Don’t go,” Anna pleaded, “I’m afraid I might not see you again!”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” I told her, “I’ll be back soon.” But it turned out that she was right, something I could not have known when I walked out of the door to look for Luke, who I never found. I really didn’t ever see Anna again.**


	4. Chapter 4

And then I made a mistake. After weeks and weeks of being patient and careful, something snapped. It seemed so trivial, but I had momentarily forgotten that what was trivial to me was a major issue for Reuben.  
After I had stopped talking about Luke, Reuben was standing quite close to me, his hand still on mine.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “Did you love him?” I swallowed.

“Yes, I loved him,” I confirmed, overwhelmed by emotions. “I thought I would never love anyone again, but then I met you.” Reuben blinked, and his eyes became cautious, hooded and distant. He took his hand away from mine. I felt panicked; I couldn’t let him withdraw from me again. On an impulse I clutched his wrist and pulled him towards me. Unprepared for my sudden movement, he overbalanced and stumbled into me. I grabbed him around the waist, partially to keep him from falling; partially I have to admit, to feel him close. He tried to push me away, but because he was still trying to regain his balance, he couldn’t put all his strength into the push, and I managed to force my mouth onto his and kiss him roughly.

Then there was a sharp pain in my jaw, and I found myself lying on my back on the ground with a throbbing face, while Reuben stormed out of the door, slamming it as he went.

I sat on the kitchen floor for a moment, cursing my impulsivity. I had got so far with him, and he had not only been listening to me, but had actually been asking me questions. I felt that this was only a step away from him opening up to me. Well, I had ruined that now. I had the strong impulse to go after him and to apologise and explain before he could move any further away from me emotionally. I wanted to undo the harm I had probably caused before it began to fester.

I knew where he was headed, it wasn’t difficult to guess. He always made for the little copse when he was upset or in one of his moods. He was already out of sight by the time I had got up off the floor and come to the realisation that I needed to follow him.

When I came closer to the little wood, I thought I could hear his voice wafting through the trees. He had a soft voice that he rarely raised, but it sounded as if he were berating someone. I was puzzled. There couldn’t be anyone there on the farm with us, someone who was hiding in the copse; or who he was hiding there? I had never heard him talking to himself as some people do, and when he spoke to the animals his tone was different: gentle and questioning. He seemed to be talking to another person, although I could not hear anyone answer.

There had to be some explanation for his obsession with the little wood on the edge of the farm. I had avoided going there as I had decided it would be better to respect his privacy. But surely there couldn’t be anyone living there without my knowing? I had been staying on the farm for nearly three months now, it was impossible that someone could be hidden on the premises without a visible sign. Suddenly apprehensive, I called out his name, then again, louder.

He stopped talking abruptly, and I heard him crashing through the undergrowth in my direction. When he came into view, his eyes were wild and distraught, and he seemed to look right through me.

“What are you doing here?” he challenged me aggressively.

“I wanted to apologise,” I answered, feeling intimidated. Reuben was very tall, and physically very fit. Having him looming over me was not a nice feeling at all. He had never shown any sign of aggression before this, quite the opposite, and I suddenly realised how dangerous he was. He was fast, strong and determined, and apparently I had angered him beyond rational thought. I backed away.

“I don’t care for your apologies,” he snarled, pushing me further back with the flat of his hand against my chest, “don’t you dare to come here ever again.” He gestured at the copse behind him. “Fuck off back to the house. Now!” He pushed me so hard that I fell back onto the ground again, and strode off without looking back. I followed him slowly, watching his retreating, stiffly upright figure, as if he were holding himself together emotionally with bodily force.

Wordlessly, we prepared breakfast together. We were so used to working as a team that no speech was required. Again I cursed myself inwardly for letting my guard slip. It had been going so well. But I also felt angry with Reuben for overreacting to something that in my eyes was hardly worth the effort. He could have pushed me away and told me to stop. He could have told me that he wasn’t attracted to men, or to me. Or he could have told me the truth: told me about whatever it was that had happened to him that had made him so averse to physical contact. Surely he knew me well enough by then to realise that I would never hurt him, apart from the fact that he was bigger and stronger, and could easily defend himself against me.

We ate in silence and we worked in silence. Reuben gave largely monosyllabic answers to my questions, if he spoke to me at all. Mostly he glared at me when I got too close to him. We were pruning the apple trees which required a certain amount of cooperation. Thankfully we both knew without communicating what we needed from one another. As the day wore on, Reuben slowly seemed to unbend. The glower disappeared from his face and his body relaxed. When he returned to speaking to me in sentences and had stopped glaring at me darkly, I tried again.

“I’m really sorry, Reuben,” I stopped what I was doing and looked at him, “I promise it won’t happen again.” Reuben let his hand with the saw sink, but didn’t meet my eyes. He looked at the ground.

“I trusted you,” he responded dully.

“You can still trust me,” I urged, “I just didn’t realise how important it is to you that I keep my distance. I was talking about Luke and my feelings overwhelmed me. The last thing I want to do is to scare you, or have you withdraw from me. I meant it when I said I love you, and I wasn’t referring to a purely sexual love. I love you, whichever way you want to take that.”

“You’re my friend, Jasper,” Reuben said sharply, “not my lover.”

“Friends can love one another, surely,” I argued. Reuben sighed.

“All right,” he agreed, “but what I said right at the beginning still holds: Keep your distance. I can’t cope with physical intimacy. I’m sorry I hit you, but if you try something like that again, then I will hit you again.”

“If you would talk about...” I tried.

“I can’t,” Reuben shook his head. “Accept that.”

Reuben was quiet for the rest of the day, no longer hostile, but sad and brooding. I was sorry that I had been the cause of his withdrawal into himself, and for his internal turmoil. I could see that he was suffering, and although I was fairly sure that he needed to confront whatever it was that it was tormenting him, I could see that it made him desperately unhappy to do so, and I was sorry for that.

Unfortunately though, while I could accept that Reuben needed me to keep my distance, the thought of whatever or whoever was concealed in his copse would not leave my head. I had to know what Reuben was hiding from me. It was all so strange and seemed so unlike anything this straightforward and practical farmer would do. The thought kept me awake at night; that and the fact that Reuben was moaning in his sleep, making me feel even guiltier than I already did. Even though Reuben’s moans and whimpers stopped me from sleeping, I was glad that he had at least not resorted to locking his door against me again. The thought of the nightmares and the comfort he derived from me waking him from them and staying with him when his demons visited, was apparently greater than his fear that I might try to molest him in the night.

We more or less reverted to our old routine, although I felt there was something missing. The easy companionship that we had shared was somehow slightly off kilter since I had stupidly kissed Reuben, and we didn’t talk about the past at all anymore. I felt as though we had taken three steps back.

*

Then one night I awoke because Reuben was leaning over me and shaking my shoulder. He had an oil lamp in one hand which shone in my eyes, so that I could not discern his expression. There was an air of panic around him.

“Jasper, Jasper, wake up!” he was saying, and repeatedly shaking my shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” I slurred, still half-asleep and confused.

“Someone is outside,” Reuben explained, while fear and excitement rolled off him. He tugged on my arm. “You can hear it from my room. Come on. Listen.” He grabbed my hand and half dragged me out of bed and into his room, his distrust of me apparently forgotten.

The only light in Reuben’s room issued from the oil lamp he was carrying. It was November, but the air was mild and his window was wide open. He turned to me and put a finger against his lips, his face ethereally beautiful in the flickering light.

He was right. The distant, but perfectly audible screams of a woman cut through the absolute stillness of the night.

“We’ve got to do something,” Reuben whispered, turning around and looking at me for confirmation. I nodded, feeling paralysed. It had been so long since I had seen anyone but Reuben that I had almost forgotten that other humans still existed. Perhaps not many of them did. But apparently there was one outside the farm, and she was in danger.

We hurriedly pulled on clothes and shoes, and Reuben took both hunting rifles from his wardrobe, and a handful of ammunition. He shoved some of the cartridges into his pocket, and handed the rest with the rifle to me.

“It’s loaded,” he told me.

“I don’t know how it works,” I admitted. He smirked.

“So you were threatening me with my gun when you first came here, but didn’t even know how to use it?”

“I wouldn’t have shot you even if I were a master marksman,” I said indignantly, “so what?”

“Well you may have to shoot now,” he answered seriously, I’ll show you when we get nearer. It’s not rocket science. Loads of idiots can shoot; it should be well within your capabilities, what with you being an academic.” He grinned at me, and then he turned away. “We need to hurry before it is too late.” He pushed past me and down the stairs, me trailing behind him, trying to keep the oil lamp steady that was swinging from its handle.

It was a clear night with a nearly full moon, so we left the lamps at the gate. Furtively, we checked the lane outside for activity. Another scream rang through the air, and the shout of a male voice. They were still quite a distance away from us, so Reuben set off at a canter through the undergrowth, strangely noiseless for such a tall man, with me doing my best to keep up with the strides of his long legs. I’m not a short man by any means, but Reuben’s height seemed to be mainly down to the length of legs. I tried not to think inappropriately of his long, smooth thighs which I had seen while swimming, and often on hot nights when he wore boxer shorts with a t-shirt. Instead, I tried very hard to think of the danger that we were in, and that somewhere, a woman was screaming for her life.

By the time I had managed to take my mind off Reuben’s thighs, the screams were very close. Reuben stopped abruptly behind a thick bush and peered through the branches, I copied him. It was a very bright night, but still it was difficult to make out exactly what was happening. There were several figures out on what had once been a road, the tarmac already torn and ragged, with dandelion plants pushing up through the gaps. They were struggling with one another and seemed to be arguing. Judging by the outlines a woman was being manhandled by two men, and another man appeared to be lying face down on the ground, with a fourth man sitting astride him, whacking him around the head with the flat of his hand if he tried to move. The woman was screaming in terror, the man on the floor was shouting for the men to leave her alone. Reuben flicked the bolt on his rifle and checked the cartridge, then he motioned for me to lift the rifle and did the same with mine.

“Don’t shoot yet,” he mouthed at me. As if I would have; I was petrified. He set the rifle on his shoulder and took careful aim at the man sitting astride the prostrate figure. He squeezed the trigger, and his target fell sideways off the man he had been straddling and onto the ground without uttering a sound. The shot that rang out froze the other people for a split second, while Reuben reloaded the rifle and calmly shot one of the men who had been manhandling the woman. He dropped straight to the ground. The man who had been on the floor got up immediately, bolted towards the woman and pushed her attacker away, placing himself in front of the woman as if to protect her. The attacker, realising he was in danger, turned to run.

“Shoot him!” Reuben shouted at me, while he was reloading his gun. I aimed, but I was taking too much time. Reuben scooted out of the bush at high speed after the escaping man, caught him and tackled him, frogmarching him back to where the woman and the surviving man were standing, open mouthed and shaking with fear.

“Are you all right?” I asked the woman, whose clothing was torn and who was staring first at me, then at Reuben, who was gripping the struggling man he had caught up with by the shoulder. Shocked, she just looked at me from behind the back of the man standing in front of her.

“Did he hurt you?” Reuben asked gently, giving the man he had now secured with a chokehold a shake.

“They tried to rape me,” she stuttered, then the man standing in front of her turned round and took her in his arms, and she wept on his shoulder. He turned his head towards us. His voice was shaking, too.

“We thought they would help us, they said they would take us to a place where lots of people live together and where they have rebuilt society, but then they started to harass Clare.” He buried his face in the woman’s hair.

“He was one of them?” Reuben asked in a quiet voice, tipping his head towards the man he had secured. The woman seemed to respond to Reuben’s gentle manner immediately.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “he was one of them.” Reuben looked at me, fumbling in his pocket for a cartridge.

“No, please don’t kill me,” the man begged, his voice distorted by Reuben’s chokehold around his neck, “I’ll do anything. I didn’t mean it, it was the others. I’d never harm a woman.”

“You said you’d fuck me till I bled to death,” the woman, who I now knew was called Clare said in a cold voice. Before the man could answer, Reuben threw him forward on the ground onto his face, put his foot on the man’s back and put the barrel of the rifle to the back of the attacker’s head.

“Reuben,” I warned, “not in cold blood.” He turned to look at me.

“And what else do you propose we should do? Should we let a rapist live on the farm? Or would you prefer we let him go, so that he can return with a small army of his sort and kill us all?” ‘I shrugged helplessly. I had killed before myself, but only in the heat of a fight, in self-defence. Of course this was self-defence of a kind, but it frightened me to see sweet, gentle Reuben standing over a man, pointing a gun at his head and coldly debating with me whether to kill him.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. Reuben looked towards the woman.

“Kill him,” the man standing with her gritted.

“Clare?” Reuben asked. She lifted her head at the sound of her name and looked at Reuben with something like tenderness in her eyes.

“Yes,” her voice was heavy with tears, “please get rid of him. Please.” She had hardly finished speaking when a shot rang out and the body under Reuben’s foot went limp. Reuben took his foot off the corpse, and staggered back a few paces until he was leaning against the tree behind him. Only then did I see that he was shaking too, uncontrollably. I went over to him, but I didn’t dare to touch him.

“Reuben,” I whispered, “you did the right thing. You were very brave. I wish there was something I could do to comfort you.” Reuben looked down at his feet. I saw a tear roll down his cheek.

“You’re here,” he said almost inaudibly, “you’re here.”

Reuben insisted that we drag the corpses back to the farm, where we left them lying near the gate.  
“We’ll bury them tomorrow,” he muttered. Clare and her companion didn’t speak a word, and Reuben kept talk to a minimum, too. It was quite shocking to be around strange people, I was so used to just having Reuben around. I had barely heard the man speak much yet, and I hadn’t really managed to get a good look at either in the half-light. They both appeared to be in their twenties, although it was hard to tell. We followed Reuben back to the farmhouse wordlessly, all of us exhausted. Reuben turned up the lamp in the hallway, and led the way into the kitchen.

“You must be hungry and thirsty,” he mumbled, hardly looking up.

“Some water would be great,” Clare answered. Reuben filled a glass with water from the water jug and handed it to her, not looking at her. He seemed to be tongue-tied in her presence.

“What about you?” Reuben addressed the man. “Are you thirsty?”

“Wow,” the man breathed. Reuben looked up sharply, and I took a good look at our guest. He wasn’t bad looking in a limp, blond sort of way, he had very striking blue eyes, and they were directed at Reuben. He was staring at him in fascination, and I could feel anger rising inside me.

“I beg your pardon?” Reuben drew himself up to his full height, which was almost a head taller than the newcomer, “and looked down disapprovingly.

“Not only do we get saved from certain death, or worse; “he looked over at Clare, “but we get saved by a vision of male loveliness,” he nodded at Reuben and then smirked at me, “complete with handsome sidekick.” Reuben took a step back, and I could see the familiar expression of disgust and panic in his eyes. I went over to him.

“You’d better leave him alone,” I threatened the man angrily, “you should show a little respect. He saved your bacon.” The man cocked his head.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” he apologised, “I am grateful; we both are. It’s just that he’s very good looking, no harm in pointing that out, is there? You both are.”

“Just back off,” I snarled, the pent up fear and tension of the evening discharging itself in impotent rage, “and don’t you dare lay even a finger on him.”

“I’m sorry,” the man repeated, “I didn’t mean to intrude. Are you a couple then?”

Something strange happened. While I answered truthfully enough “No,” with a certain amount of regret in my voice, Reuben said “Yes” at exactly the same time. I stared at him, and he glared back at me, daring me to contradict him.

“OK,” the man said slowly, looking from me to Reuben, and then back again, “well, when you have made up your minds you can let me know. I’m gay, I’m single, and I’m very available.” He grinned. “The name’s Mark Walters, and this is Clare, my sister. And we are very grateful for your brave intervention, and for your hospitality. Thank you.” Reuben nodded, but still eyed the newcomer suspiciously.

“Thank you,” Clare said. She walked straight up to Reuben and embraced him affectionately, her eyes full of tears. He didn’t recoil; he didn’t flinch or draw back from her. In fact, he even patted her shoulder, before extracting himself quietly and calmly.

Clare was an attractive woman, even I could see that, despite being tear-stained and dishevelled. She had dark, almost black hair to her shoulders, and blue eyes like her brother. She was taller than he was, too, almost as tall as me. When I saw how Reuben interacted with her, I immediately drew one conclusion: Reuben was straight. He liked women. They didn’t scare him, and he enjoyed their proximity. I inwardly cursed his bloody-mindedness for not just telling me. Yes, there was trauma there too, something terrible had happened to him no doubt, but even if it happened he would never have been interested in me. He liked women. Well, now he had found one. Bitterly I watched his beautiful long hands as they cut bread for Clare and Mark and set the table. Now I had no hope at all of ever feeling them on me. I still didn’t know why he had told Mark that we were a couple, but I supposed it was just one of Reuben’s round about ways of keeping Mark at bay, or just another of his incomprehensible, misleading and secretive manoeuvres.


	5. Chapter 5

Reuben offered Clare and Mark the guest room. There was a fourth room, but that was always locked, another of Reuben’s secrets. He said it was full of junk. I had no idea whether that was true. While Reuben was making the beds with Clare, I took Mark to show him the bathroom and the downstairs washroom if he wanted to use it. Neither of them was more than slightly muddy and dishevelled, so I assumed they must have been staying somewhere where they had had access to cleaning facilities. There was probably an interesting story for them to tell, but we agreed to leave it until the morning. But I did take the opportunity to warn Mark off Reuben. I had gathered that Mark was a good natured enough man, but he was also intrusive, pushy and tactless, and I was worried.  
“When I told you not to lay a finger on Reuben, I meant it,” I cautioned him while he washed his hands and face with cold water and soap.

“All right,” Mark grinned at me, “no need to get jealous. I’ll leave your pretty non-boyfriend alone. It doesn’t take a genius to see that you are totally smitten with him. Glad I’m not the only gay in the village, then.”

“I mean it,” I continued, “and it’s not jealousy. He really can’t bear anyone to touch him. I’m not sure why because he won’t tell me. So please respect his need for distance.” Mark looked at me seriously.

“Listen,” he said, “Clare and I owe him our lives. I’m not going to do anything to upset him, I promise. But in the meantime, if you need a bit of human contact, I’m up for anything.”

“I don’t know,” I sighed. I was contemplating it, to be honest. Mark was quite attractive, and I hadn’t had sex with anyone but my hand for longer than I could even think. It wasn’t as though there were a commitment between myself and Reuben, in fact Reuben had gone out of his way to disabuse me of that notion. And of course there was the sneaking feeling I had that Reuben was straight anyway, and would never be interested in me, despite him telling Mark that we were a couple. I recalled his reaction to Clare. “I love Reuben,” I blurted, glad in a way to have someone to talk to openly, “but he won’t let me anywhere near him. He punched me when I kissed him.” Mark smirked briefly, and then quickly rearranged his features. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Mark responded, “I’ll bet he can pack a punch.”

“He didn’t hit me very hard,” I said. “The thing is, I think he’s straight. Your sister could embrace him and he didn’t bat an eyelid. If I had tried that he would have kicked me so hard I still wouldn’t remember my name.” Mark looked at me contemplatively.

“So the fact that he let Clare touch him but won’t let you near him makes you think he must be straight?” Mark mused. “That tells me something else all together.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Listen,” Mark said, “I’m just an actor. I used to be a member of a Shakespeare repertory company. I’m also a bit of a fool, so I can’t pretend to be an expert. But Clare can help you. Maybe we can repay your kindness a little. Clare’s a – well, she was a psychologist. Reuben seems to trust her. Let her talk to him. And as to his behaviour towards her, well that suggests to me that he has suffered some form of abuse, possibly sexual, by a man. It’s obvious really; I think you’re just too close to him to see clearly.”

I suppose it had been a thought in the back of my mind that Reuben might have suffered some kind of sexual abuse, although I had never really contemplated that it might be the reason he reacted so vehemently to my proximity. I had always imagined some other kind of terrible experience, especially as the only things he had ever made allusions to were the deaths of his neighbours and the other villagers, and the fact that he had buried them. I imagined that would be traumatic enough to make him very suspicious and fearful of anyone. Strangely, sexual abuse in my mind was something I imagined was committed against women. I had encountered it on my way here just as we had that same evening towards Clare. But of course I knew that men could be victims just the same as women could; it just hadn’t registered. Mark had only known Reuben a couple of hours and had immediately seen what I had not.

“It’s obvious that he’s fond of you,” Mark smiled, “and if he were straight I’m pretty sure he would have mentioned it by now. After all, if he really wanted to get rid of you and your attentions it would be the easiest way to make you back off. If you want my non-professional opinion, I’d say he might be bi. He’s definitely interested in you and frustrated because he is unable to do anything about it.”

We went to bed then, Reuben looked exhausted, and it was not just the lack of sleep. He had been subdued all the while, but when Mark and I returned to the bedroom, he was talking to Clare rapidly and in a very low voice. He stopped as soon as we entered. I felt a fresh stab of jealousy. How could Mark possibly be so sure that Reuben wasn’t interested in Clare after just two hours in our company? To me, it looked as though Reuben had found his soul mate.

We all went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. There wasn’t much of the night left, and I wanted to be up early to feed the animals. Reuben deserved to sleep a little longer.

As soon as it was light I dressed and went down to have a quick wash and light the stove. Then I let the animals out of the barn where we kept them at night, and fed them. There was still no movement in the farmhouse, and I decided to let Reuben sleep. He had been distraught the night before, and I felt for him. I didn’t know what he had endured in the past, but if Mark was right, it was not just death and destruction. I decided he needed a break from always taking responsibility for everything, and I was determined to make a start on burying the three corpses that were still lying near the gate. He had been forced to kill them, and it hadn’t been easy for him; the least I could do was to dispose of the bodies.

Looking around for a suitable burial ground, as far away from the house as possible, I remembered the plot of loosened earth that Reuben had not wanted me to plant with potatoes. It would be a perfect spot, a long way away from the house, with the added bonus of having soil that had already been dug over and wouldn’t be too hard. As Reuben had said he didn’t want it used for planting, it would be perfect for what I was planning to do.

I shouldered a spade and marked out a plot that would contain three adult corpses. Then I began to dig. It wasn’t too hard going, the soil must have been turned sometime during the last six or eight months I guessed. I worked solidly for an hour and had got quite far down, when the spade hit something softish, but unyielding. I dug around it and saw something whitish and ragged, and a portion of decaying cloth. Unable to comprehend what I was seeing, I went down on my hands and knees to examine my find. It was a bone, and on closer inspection I had to assume that it was the ulna and radius bones of the lower arm, attached to which was a hand. The fabric was apparently what was left of a sleeve, and there were still the ragged remains of a sinew. Trying to comprehend what I was seeing, I had no chance to hear Reuben, moving with his usual noiseless grace, come up behind me and scream my name in utter shock and dismay.

I turned. Reuben was white as a sheet and shaking.

“Reuben, what is this?” I said in a voice that sounded calm and collected despite the panic and revulsion rising in my breast.

“I told you not to come here!” he screamed at me.

“Who was it?” I gestured at the visible remains of the buried corpse. He sank to his knees and buried his head.

“No one,” he mumbled into his hands.

“Reuben!” I shouted at him, kneeling down beside him. “Tell me what happened here. I don’t have to know the details.” I softened my tone. “Were they marauders? Did you kill them?” He nodded with his head still in his hands. “Were they here on the farm? Reuben?” He nodded again.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Then it won’t matter if we bury three more of their sort here. I think this is deep enough, don’t you? Do you think you can help me bring the corpses over? Reuben?” I jogged his shoulder, not caring about his reaction. He stared at me for a moment then he rose heavily to his feet.

“Yes, of course,” he agreed tearfully, and trotted after me to the gate, a reversal of our usual roles. It struck me that it was always Reuben who took responsibility for everything, for our food, our safety, our wellbeing, and our lives. Now he had taken on two more people. He was so young and so tortured, and carried such a great weight on his shoulders that pity for him overcame me.

We dragged the bodies to the grave I had dug, rolled them in without looking at them, they were three men in their twenties, but that is all that registered, I didn’t want to remember their faces; and piled the earth back on top. We patted the soil down with the shovel and rolled a boulder on top of the patch.

“It’s all right, Reuben,” I told him, “you don’t have to do everything alone. Let me share some of the burden.” Reuben gave me a brief, worried smile and we went back to the kitchen. We used the hot water that I had heated on the stove to wash our hands and faces. Together we prepared breakfast, and when we heard Clare’s and Mark’s voices on the stairs, we used the heat to make some scrambled eggs.

When our two guests entered the kitchen, Clare went straight up to Reuben and kissed him on the cheek. Reuben ducked and blushed, and I felt a stab of jealousy.

“Good morning,” she said to me, “how kind of you, breakfast! I don’t know when I last had a hot breakfast with scrambled eggs.”

“Well, if it isn’t Batman and Robin,” Mark added, “good morning, gentlemen, you’re up early!” Reuben turned to look at Mark with an expression of disbelief, and then switched his attention back to the eggs he was just serving from the pan to the plates, still looking utterly baffled.

“We get up early every morning,” I answered, smiling at Reuben’s expression, “and so will you in future. Being self-sustaining is hard work.”

“Oh, I don’t mind hard work,” Mark grinned, taking the pan out of Reuben’s hands, “here, Beautiful, you let me do that and sit down.” Reuben opened his mouth to say something, but then he just shook his head and did as he was told.

I was curious to hear Mark and Clare’s story, but we had work to do. There would be time at midday, now that we had four pairs of hands instead of two, the work would take less time than before. On the other hand, there were two extra mouths to feed.

I offered to hoe the cabbages and broccoli, while Reuben was very quick to volunteer to clean the barn with Clare. I looked at Reuben accusingly, but he didn’t return the look. I was annoyed and jealous, and the fact that Mark was openly grinning at me did nothing to help sooth my disgruntlement. Mark, it was decided, was to stay near the farmhouse, give the place a thorough clean, do the washing – an arduous task -, tend to the garden and prepare the midday meal.

“I’m a domesticated kind of guy,” he said with a simper, “I’ll leave the physical work to the macho men and women.” Both Reuben and I had a heartfelt dislike of housework and were only too happy to leave those irksome tasks to someone better suited to them. Apparently Clare agreed, and she and followed Reuben to the barn, while I shouldered the hoe and trudged off to the cabbage field, seething with jealous and impotent rage. Reuben didn’t even look over at me when he marched off in the opposite direction with Clare.

I hoed and weeded the field in a frenzy of activity, trying to work off my anger. I also trimmed some of the hedgerows, took off some low-hanging tree branches, and checked the gate was securely shut. Molly was milling around in the field, obviously at a loose end, with Reuben and Clare holed up in the barn doing god-knows-what. Molly seemed to be just as annoyed by this as I was. I voiced my discontent to her, and she snickered back in apparent agreement while I worked up a sweat. When my stomach was grumbling so loudly that I couldn’t ignore it any more, I went back to the farmhouse to see how lunch was coming on. I purposely avoided the barn, leaning the hoe against the wall of the farmhouse and washing my hands in the water trough.

Mark came out to greet me. “Been getting your hands dirty, Handsome?” he said. I just grunted. “I cleaned the house,” he went on, “but two of the upstairs bedrooms were locked. Any reason?” I shrugged.

“One is Reuben’s bedroom, he doesn’t like anyone but me to go in there, and he won’t even let me in the other one. I’d just let it slip if I were you,” I advised, “he gets quite agitated if you press him on the things he is being secretive about.”

“OK,” Mark agreed, “well, I made vegetable stew with Norfolk dumplings, some fresh bread, and fruit and cream for dessert. I asked Reuben whether he had any meat for the stew but he said he couldn’t abide killing animals for meat, so I take it we are all vegetarians.”

“That’s another thing he gets upset about,” I explained, “he won’t even eat the rabbits that constantly raid his carrots.”

“At least Clare won’t mind,” Mark continued, “she’s a vegetarian anyway.”

Oh great, I thought, another thing they’ve got in common. Out loud I said: “I see you’ve done the washing, you have been busy, well done. You’ve done more than Reuben and I in a fortnight.” Mark preened a little, I could see he was pleased.

“Well, each to his own,” Mark smiled, and then his eyes seemed to wander. “You remember when I said that I would be happy to oblige with a little human warmth if you need it?” I nodded, thinking that if Reuben was so enamoured of Clare it wouldn’t hurt to take Mark up on his offer. “Well,” Mark went on, “the offer still stands.” He leant forward and kissed me on the lips, then turned away, whistling, to go back to the kitchen. A second later Reuben hove into sight, and his face was as black as thunder.

Reuben didn’t comment though, and I wondered if he had seen the kiss after all. He was very quiet at lunch, but that was not unusual for him as he was often lost in thought. He did go out of his way to praise Mark’s cooking, and he obviously meant it, because he ate a lot more than he usually did, which wasn’t all that much for such a tall, hard-working man. When we had finished, we all washed up, and went outside to sit in the late November sun around the table that was next to the barn. Clare and Mark had promised to tell us their story.

The train from Birmingham to Cambridge was so full that at least I wasn’t afraid of falling over, there was nowhere to fall, Mark related. Only a few of the passengers got off at Cambridge, but a mass of people were trying to get on. The train was bound for London, and that was where most were headed, to get out of the country and to rejoin families abroad, or try to find refuge in other countries. I couldn’t help thinking how we ourselves had become the refugees, the hated migrants that we resented so much in our own country. Throngs of Eastern Asian students stood on the platforms, hoping for a train to take them back to their families before the UK collapsed completely, while at least a few unscheduled trains were running and the airport still open. Quiet and polite, they seemed unable to elbow their way to the front of the crowd. When I crossed the platform and tried to make my way through the crowd towards the exit, I bumped into a beautiful Asian girl, with long black hair like silk and a face so perfect that it nearly made me weep.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, I’m sorry,” she answered. She smiled at me. “You shouldn’t go there,” she gestured towards the exit, “all the shops have been looted and there are bands of terrible people on the prowl at night.”

“I’m looking for my sister,” I explained, “I think she’s still in Cambridge. She works at one of the colleges as a research assistant.”

“Oh,” the girl said, “which college?”

“Newnham,” I said, “Department of Psychology. And you?”

“Kings,” she smiled, “Mathematics. I wanted to study in Cambridge for as long as I can remember; I never imagined it would end this way.”

“Where are you headed, then?” I asked.

“I need to get to the airport, I want to go back home to my parents. I need to get on the next flight to Seoul.” She smiled apologetically.

“Right,” I said, “come with me.” I barged my way through the crowd, pulling her behind me. When I got to the train, I dragged an apoplectic looking, red faced man off the train, and pushed her on. The door closed behind her, and the train moved. The apoplectic man turned to me, shouting in rage, so I ducked and pushed my way through the crowd to get to the entrance.

“Show off,” Clare interrupted.

“It’s true, though!” Mark protested.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I shoved my way out of the station and onto the road, and the further away from the railway station I got, the emptier the streets were. The shop windows had been broken and the shops looted, that was familiar from Birmingham. The pretty buildings were defaced, and rude graffiti scrawled on the walls. There was rubbish everywhere. On a whim, I went into the Lion Yard Shopping Centre, a place I had been to often with Clare, trailing behind her while she enjoyed the shops and feeling thoroughly bored. Waiting outside Lush, suffocating from the smell while she selected her favourite soaps, I had often enough wished the whole bloody place would be destroyed by a hurricane, so nothing prepared me for the shock when I entered the building and saw the utter mayhem there. Not one window was unbroken, every shop was looted. Not only had people stolen things, but everything else had been senselessly wrecked, despoiled; even defecated on. Some of the stores had been used as toilets, although there were still functioning public toilets in the building, and the whole place stank of human excrement. There were groups of men in loitering, surrounded by bottles of alcohol, empty and full, which was my luck because they were too drunk to chase me. I beat a hasty retreat and went on to Newnham College, where I hoped to find Clare, alive and well. I figured that not even a catastrophe on the scale we were witnessing would force her to quit her beloved college. I just hoped she was still alive.

The College was deathly quiet when I got there, not a soul was around. It was surprisingly intact, a few smashed windows, but otherwise unharmed, perhaps it was too far out of the city centre for the looters to bother with, perhaps they supposed that there was nothing of interest there for them to take. I felt a sense of dread as I walked along the silent corridors and up the stairs to Clare’s rooms. I realised how unbelievably optimistic I had been to assume that she was still there, still alive even. The mass demonstrations against immigration had turned into mass riots about the breakdown of basic services, and they in their turn had given way to absolute anarchy. But you know all that: the gang rapes, the plundering, the senseless murders; the exploitation of the weak, the sick, the old, families with small children unable to defend themselves. I couldn’t have foreseen it, and I wondered if my psychologist sister had been able to. I had no way of knowing, I hadn’t spoken to her for weeks, not since the Grid had broken down, and with it all the methods of communication. All the resources were reserved for transportation services, and I had managed to catch one of the last trains. After that, there was nothing left at all, no semblance of a structure any more.

But Clare was there, cheerful and expecting me, and proudly showed me her huge store of bottled water and tinned food. She and her colleagues had collected the items before the shops were plundered and emptied. She wasn’ t the only one left in the building, but one by one the others left, and gave us their food and water, and we were surrounded by silence. We hadn’t ventured back into the town, and what activity there was, if there was any at all, didn’t reach us. At that time, there was still water coming out of the taps, it wasn’t drinkable any more but we could use it to wash. So we probably had it better than most, apart of course from our steadily dwindling store of water and food.

We had no idea what was going on outside, no idea that people had been dying of hunger, or because they drank contaminated water, because of poor hygiene and the outbreak of epidemics, and because they slaughtered one another wholesale. We had wondered why it was months since we had heard any sign of human activity, but we had been too afraid to leave the college. It was peaceful, idyllic even; but it was also very lonely. I suppose though that we would have stayed there indefinitely, but one day we realisation set in that we only had water left for one more week.

We tried boiling the tap water, but there was a sludgy residue left in the pot that was not exactly trust-inspiring. We decided to leave the college and find out what was happening in the outside world. That was two weeks ago.

Well, you know what the world is like now. It was deserted, ruined, even in the towns the roads were overgrown, animals roaming the streets, still timid but getting bolder. We didn’t see a soul in Cambridge, so we set off north, across the fens, we thought there might be more hope of finding people who had banded together peacefully in the countryside rather than in the mayhem that had been London. But the fens are a fairly empty place at the best of times, and we saw no one until we had crossed into Norfolk, where we met one of the men who attacked us. I suppose we were so overjoyed to see a human that we threw all caution to the wind. He was alone, after all. He told us that there were people in Norwich who had managed to retain a functioning community of sorts, a bastion of civilisation. He promised to take us there, and he said he was going there himself. He looked clean and healthy enough, so we believed him. We believed him because we wanted to. Somewhere along the road, we were joined by the two others. After they discovered that we had nothing at all in our backpacks of use to them apart from a few tins of baked beans and some bottled water, they attacked us. The rest you know. You saved our lives.”


	6. Chapter 6

We finished the day with work, shut the animals in the barn and had supper. Clare and Mark were easy to be with, and I could imagine a new routine with the four of us. Reuben was quiet at dinner and excused himself fairly early. He said he was tired, and needed an early night. I knew how upset he had been when we buried the three men, and I could understand that he felt drained. Mark was full of amusing banter, and Clare was just too nice for me to seriously resent her presence as a rival for Reuben’s affections. I went to bed eventually, too, leaving the other two to wash and go to bed in their own time.  
Reuben’s bedroom door was shut, which alarmed me. It hadn’t been shut yesterday evening. I thought perhaps he didn’t want to be disturbed by us, and I wondered whether to open it quietly now that we were all going to bed. I knocked, and when there was no answer I pressed on the handle. It was locked. This hadn’t happened since the very first night. Worried, I went into my own room. I was just pulling off my shirt, when I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to find Reuben lying in my bed with the cover up to his chin, apparently naked underneath, if the foot and shoulder poking out from under the blanket were anything to go by. He looked adorable, but he also looked totally petrified. We stared at one another for a moment, and then I managed to speak.

“Reuben,” I said with an uncertain voice, “what are you doing in my bed?” Reuben swallowed several times before he was able to answer.

“I thought you might like me to be here,” his voice wavered.

“I do,” I sat down on the edge of the bed very cautiously, “you are welcome to sleep here if you like. But perhaps you should put on your pyjamas; it gets quite cold at night.” Reuben frowned at me and sighed.

“I didn’t come here to sleep,” he snapped. “I want to... I want you to... sleep with me. Have sex with me.” He was shaking now.

“Reuben,” I tried to reason with him, “last time I touched you inappropriately, you punched me on the chin, quite rightly I might add. I would love to sleep with you, but not yet. You have a lot of issues that need dealing with before we can do anything like that. Now give me the key to your room, I’ll get your pyjamas and then you can spend the night here for a start.” Reuben shot a black look in my direction. He sat up and pulled off the blanket, first exposing his body down to the waist, and then with what seemed to be an enormous effort, the rest of him. I frantically tried to look at anything but Reuben. He was mind-bogglingly gorgeous, lithe, long-limbed and golden-skinned.

“For fuck’s sake,” I hissed at him, trying to keep the noise down, “that’s not fair. What the hell do you think you are playing at? First I’m not allowed to touch you even in passing, and suddenly you’re in my bed, naked, demanding to have sex with me. What are you...?” I stopped. I had focused on his upper chest, trying to ignore the rest of him. There was a drop of moisture there, then another fell and landed on his skin. I looked up. Reuben was trembling and crying noiselessly, large tears rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his chest. “Tell me what this is all about,” I continued gently, pulling the blanket back over him, “you haven’t got a sudden craving for sex, have you? This is something else entirely.” Reuben sniffed tearfully and looked at me sullenly.

“You don’t need him,” Reuben gestured with his head towards the door, “I can give you anything he can. I’m not letting him come between us.”

“Him?” I asked, bewildered.

“Mark,” Reuben growled, sniffling back the tears, “I saw him kiss you, and you kissed him back. I saw your face, you liked it. I mean, I don’t blame you for wanting, you know, sex and that, and I haven’t been able to give you that but I’m damned if I’m going to let him have you.” Reuben glowered at me, apparently exhausted by what was, by his standards, a fairly lengthy speech. I nearly laughed, but I decided that would probably make him angry, so I suppressed a smile, glad to have found the reason for his apparently uncharacteristic behaviour, and glad that the reason behind it was pure and simple jealousy.

“Nothing will come between us,” I assured him, “and I meant it when I told you I loved you. I admit I was tempted,” here Reuben scowled, “but only because I thought you were attracted to Clare.” Here Reuben shook his head in disbelief. “You know,” I smiled, “I think Mark meant you to see that kiss. It seemed rather odd at the time. I think he meant to push you to admitting what you feel for me. Because you do feel for me, don’t you?” Reuben looked down at his finger nails and shrugged.

“I suppose,” he grunted.

“Not one of the greatest declarations of love ever,” I laughed, “but I suppose it will have to do.”

“I just like Clare,” Reuben changed the subject quickly, “I can talk to her. Actually I don’t have to talk much because she understands everything; even if I don’t tell her things, she knows.”

“That’s good, Reuben,” I told him, “as long as you don’t fall in love with her.” He glared at me and growled something unintelligible. “Listen, hand over your key and I’ll fetch your pyjamas.”

“Well obviously I haven’t got it on me,” Reuben answered sarcastically, “it’s over there, on the dresser.” He lay back, pulling the covers up under his chin again, and looked at me challengingly.

I went to his bedroom, trying hard not to smile too broadly. It was a ridiculous situation, but I was elated. At last Reuben had admitted that he was fond of me, and more than that, that he was jealous, and that he wanted a sexual relationship with me, however hard it might be to attain, and however long it might take. I didn’t mind waiting, because as long as I knew that he felt the same way that I did, I was happy. I thanked Mark silently for his intervention; I was sure he had kissed me in full view of Reuben on purpose.  
As it was, Reuben couldn’t bear to share the bed with me for very long and soon padded back to his own bedroom, but we arranged for him to stay for a while in my room every evening before going to bed, just to talk, and maybe to get closer. I was feeling very pleased with myself when, next morning at breakfast, Reuben covered my hand with his own and grinned smugly at Mark, who just raised an eyebrow. I could see Mark smiling widely though when he turned away to get the bread from the larder, which confirmed my suspicions that his kiss had been nothing but a ploy to spur Reuben into action.  
Life on the farm went on as if there had always been four of us. Reuben became more talkative, which was mainly thanks to Clare, but he still had black moods when he would stride off to the coppice on the edge of the farm without saying a word. Strangely, neither Mark nor Clare commented on his behaviour, and I seemed to be the only one who found it odd. I wondered if they knew something that I did not. If I hadn’t been wary of betraying Reuben’s trust, I would have sneaked over there to have a look, but I was sure that if I did, he would never forgive me. Apart from that, I had to admit that I was half afraid of what I might find there. Knowing that Reuben had killed and buried at least one person before was a little unsettling, because I wondered what had driven him to kill. Half of me didn’t want to know; the other half was desperate to find out because I was sure that his past was the key to his present behaviour.  
With two extra people on the farm, we ran low on soap and lamp oil fairly quickly. We decided to make a foray to the village, and while Reuben wanted to go alone, I insisted that I would come, too and, surprisingly, so did Clare. When Mark volunteered as well, Reuben was adamant that one of us should stay at the farm, as it would be safer that way. So it was decided that Reuben, Clare and I would venture into the village.  
When we left the farm and ventured out into the countryside, I could see that Clare looked dazed. She was obviously feeling the same thing I had felt the first time I had left the farm after I had been there for several weeks. It was strange to be outside, and it made you feel vulnerable. If Reuben felt the same, there was certainly no indication. Calmly and with his almost noiseless grace, he led us through the undergrowth, avoiding the road where we had saved Clare and Mark. Clare winced when she recognised the area, and glanced at Reuben, who gave her a brief and encouraging smile. I was glad when we reached the churchyard and could duck behind the gravestones for cover. Clare noticed the prominent one with Reuben’s surname on.  
“Your parents?” she hissed. He shook his head.

“Grandparents,” he answered in a whisper.

“Are there more of your family members buried here?” she persisted. He smiled bitterly.

“Almost all of the people buried here are more or less my family members,” he murmured. “As far as I know, there are none left alive. The ones I found dead in the village I buried behind the church.” He gestured in the general direction. Clare patted his arm. I could feel that she would have liked to question him further, but that she respected his obvious discomfort. We sneaked up to the wall near the front porch, and stopped there for a moment, listening.

“It seems quiet enough,” I said. Reuben shot me an angry look and put his finger to his lips. Very slowly he poked his head over the wall so that he could just about see over it. Then he ducked down again.

“Something feels wrong,” he whispered, “and there are no animals. None at all. I don’t like it.” We sat for a moment, watching Reuben frown, listening carefully. I looked around the churchyard. It was early December, still mild, but the trees had lost their leaves, which were being blown around in flurries, and piling up against the gravestones. It had rained fairly solidly for the past three weeks, and the ground was soggy. Moisture was seeping into my clothes. I felt resentful that we had to wait here on the wet grass just because Reuben was so over-cautious. There was not a sound to be heard, after all. I would catch cold, and that would serve Reuben right. I was just about to speak when I heard what sounded like a shoe scuffing on tarmac, and a stone being kicked. Living in the country and the absolute quiet had sharpened even my city-bred senses. And then it was unmistakable: the sound of shoes on tarmac. Whoever it was had probably been on the grass before, and was now on the road, because the voices were quite nearby, certainly near enough to hear what was being spoken.

There were two men speaking, predictably: young men had been the main survivors of climate change, the riots, the diseases and the hunger. Physically stronger than women and probably more ruthless as well, the majority of people I had met on the road had been young and male. It made me realise how vulnerable and conspicuous that made Clare. I tried to concentrate on what the two men were saying.  
“Nothing much here,” said one of the men, his voice when he spoke was clear and high; he sounded little more than a boy.

“Any food has long gone,” a deeper voice responded, “never mind, it’s only about two days walk.”

“And you’re sure they’ve got food there? And they’ll let us in?” the younger voice asked plaintively.

“I’m not sure of anything,” the older sounding man sighed, “but it’s the only hope we’ve got. We’ve come so far, there has to be something left.”

“Do you think any of the others made it there?” the higher voice asked.

“I don’t know,” the deeper voice answered, “all we know is that they set out for Norwich and didn’t come back. That might mean that something happened on the way there, but it might mean that the rumours are true, and people have managed to sustain some sort of functioning community there. We’ll find out. Come on, we’ll just have to walk on an empty stomach. Nothing we haven’t done before.” Clare made as if to get up, but Reuben laid a large hand on her shoulder heavily, and shot her a warning look. The sound of their footsteps receded into the distance. They sounded slow and laboured, as if they had come a long way.

“We could have helped them!” Clare hissed at Reuben.

“We don’t know who they are,” Reuben whispered calmly.

“You didn’t know who Mark and I were, and you saved us and took us in,” Clare argued.

“That was different,” Reuben sighed, “you were in acute danger, and you’re a woman. If you had been a man I probably wouldn’t have acted as I did.” Clare frowned at him.

“Is that some kind of reverse sexism?” she asked Reuben.

“You know it’s not,” Reuben snapped back. “Men are dangerous and ruthless. Not all, granted, but the feral gangs on the rampage who have plunged us all into the dark ages are overwhelmingly male, or do you dispute that? Your own experiences should tell you. Hence it is better to be distrustful of unknown males. Simple.” Clare looked away.

“You’re right, of course,” Clare answered, “I just felt sorry for them.”

“So did I,” Reuben admitted, “but it’s just too dangerous to act on that sentiment.”

“Do you think it’s true?” she asked Reuben after a pause while I was trying to detect any sounds of life on the other side of the wall.

“About there being a community at Norwich?” Reuben shrugged. “I don’t know. I heard the rumour before, quite a while ago. Doubtful at the very most I would think.”

“The men who attacked us said they would take us there,” Clare continued, “that’s why we followed them.”

“Never trust a stranger,” Reuben said off-handedly, upon which he turned to me and asked: “hear anything suspicious?” I shook my head.

“I think it’s safe, but then I thought so before.” Reuben pointed overhead. A large family of blue tits had congregated in the branches overhead and were squabbling noisily.

“The birds agree with you,” Reuben smiled, rising to his feet and scanning the street on the other side of the church wall. I noticed that the birds hadn’t flown away; apparently he moved so quietly and gently that they didn’t feel threatened. They fluttered off though when Clare and I stood up beside him. “I think it’s safe to move.”

We retrieved soap, washing powder, lamp oil and plasters, and Clare found aspirin and antiseptic cream in one of the houses. Reuben was quiet, I knew this was hard on him. In among the rubbish in one of the houses lay the scrunched up photo of a young man. I picked it up and unfolded it.  
“Are you going to bring another photograph back with you?” Reuben asked with an attempt at jocularity.

“No,” I said, looking at the thick-set blond young man in the photograph smiling out at me, “the photo of you is enough for me.” It was in my bedside cabinet draw. But the truth is that the photo of the stranger I was looking at shook me a little, as the image reminded me of Luke. It wasn’t so much a physical likeness – Luke was dark-haired for one thing – perhaps it was because the boy in the photograph was wearing a rugby shirt and had broad, muscular shoulders like Luke. I suddenly felt like crying for all that I had lost, and all those about whose fate I knew nothing. Luke and Anna, my parents, my sister: all gone. Reuben must have sensed my distress because he moved closer.

“That’s John,” he said, looking over my shoulder, “he was a couple of years older than me. Rugby player.”

“Is he dead?” I asked, my voice shaking. I didn’t know John, but it felt as if I were asking about Luke.

“I don’t know,” Reuben said, “he was at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, but he never came back. He wouldn’t have left his parents alone and in danger, he was devoted to them. So I suppose that he is either dead, or couldn’t get away for some reason. Perhaps that rumour is true, and he is living happily in Norwich. But somehow I can’t believe he wouldn’t have come back for his parents.”

Clare, who had been rummaging in the room, had come up to us quietly and put an arm around each of us.  
“It’s the uncertainty that gets to you,” she murmured, “not knowing how they died, or if they died, or if they are alive and somewhere else. Did Mark tell you? He went to our parent’s house in Manchester before he came to find me in Cambridge. They were gone. Not a trace of them left. No one in the whole street was left. None of their friends, none of our relations. The entire place was ransacked. I choose to believe that they all fled together and found a safe place to stay. But I will probably never know. In some cases it might be better not to know.” She and Reuben exchanged a look, and I got the impression that there was some hidden meaning to her words.

We walked back to the farm in silence, each of us enclosed in our own little version of hell, wondering about what had happened to those nearest and dearest to us. Oddly enough, Reuben had taken the photograph of John out of my hand, and then had shoved it furtively into his rucksack when he thought no one was looking. Perhaps he just couldn’t bear the thought of the photograph of an old friend lying torn and muddy on the ground with the rubbish.  
Mark was waiting for us, he made a big show of laughing and joking, but I could see by the drawn expression on his face, which immediately relaxed when he saw us, that he had been worried.  
“Reuben, brush the cobwebs out of your hair,” he scolded, “you need a haircut anyway, you could use that stuff on your head to thatch a house!” Reuben grumbled a little, but I could see that he was amused by Mark’s banter. As long as Mark kept away from me, he could do no wrong in Reuben’s eyes. Anyone who cooked as well as Mark could be assured of Reuben’s undying, if seldom demonstrated affection.

Reuben had been withdrawn since we had come back from the village; since I had found the photograph of John to be exact. I knew how he felt, because the sudden memory of Luke had upset me a lot more than I cared to admit. But instead of rushing off to the little copse, which is what Reuben did straight after dinner, I tried to find some solace in the company of Mark and Clare, sitting on the bench in front of the farmhouse, taking advantage of a mild evening with no rain for a change.  
“Look at Heathcliff,” Mark gestured towards Reuben, “striding off with the wind in his hair. He looks quite the romantic hero.”

“He needs a haircut,” I remarked flatly.

“So give him one,” Mark answered tartly, “he’s your boyfriend. Oops, naughty, double meaning. Well,I’m off to wash up the dishes. Volunteers? Thought not.” Grumbling he went back into the kitchen, leaving me with Clare, sitting on the bench. I looked at Clare.

“Do you know why he always heads for that wood when he is upset?” I decided to ask her outright. She didn’t look at me.

“I suppose,” she answered slowly, “it’s just a place he goes to think and to work out his own feelings. I think it’s also a place he goes to grieve. Does it worry you?”

“A little, I suppose.” I took a deep breath. “I went after him there, once. I only followed him because I wanted to apologize for kissing him. He was talking to someone. Actually, it worries me a lot.” Clare smiled.

“It’s just his way of coping, I think,” she answered. “We’re survivors, all of us here. We’ve seen and experienced terrible things, Mark and I probably a lot less than you or Reuben. Somehow we have to come to terms with the horrors. Reuben has developed a lot of different methods to help him. This is one of them, avoiding physical contact is another. What about you, Jasper? You never speak about your experiences. I know you left London and never saw your flatmate, or your boyfriend again. Then you were on the road for over a year. You must have been through some horrendous things, but you never talk about them.”

“I tried to talk to Reuben about his and my own past, but he can’t. And it’s easier just to suppress the memories. I don’t think that I went through half what he went through. I still worry when he goes off like that.” I turned to look at Clare.

“Why?” she asked, “do you think he’s crazy? I can assure you that he is not.”

“But who was he talking to?” I insisted.

“Someone who can comfort him,” Clare said quietly, “we all do that from time to time.”

“I can comfort him,” I argued.

“You can, and you do,” she returned.

“So who is he talking to?” I repeated.

“Give him time and show him that he can trust you, and he’ll tell you,” Clare said.

“Did he tell you?” I flared, jealously. Clare looked at me with amusement.

“No,” she grinned, “but I can make an educated guess. I suggest you do the same, and if you can’t, you’ll just have to wait until he tells you.” Then she looked at me seriously. “Don’t betray his trust; you know how difficult it is for him to open up. Give him time.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Reuben never could see the sense in going to school. Apart from basic Maths, English, and Biology, particularly anything to do with animals and plants, school held no interest for the boy. His teachers repeatedly told his parents that their son’s lethargy was a pity; that he could go to university if he tried, and that it was a waste of a good brain that Reuben just couldn’t be bothered with school work.  
“I can’t tell Reuben what to do,” his father said to the teacher on parent’s day, “he just won’t listen. He knows what he wants.” Reuben’s father spoke in the soft, drawling local dialect that Reuben’s teacher, newly transferred from London to the tiny village primary school, found so difficult to decipher. So Reuben whiled away his time in school, staring longingly out of the window, and doing just enough to get by.  
Reuben had a plan, and it didn’t involve going to university or attaining academic glory. It involved working on his father’s farm, driving one of the huge Massey Ferguson tractors through the lanes, piloting the combine harvester across the corn fields, tending to the animals and watching the sun sink behind the hedgerows while the larks sang a last, evening song. That was what made Reuben happy, and he had no desire to move even a few miles away from the farm that he had grown up on, and the area that generations of his family had always called home.

He would have been happy enough if things had remained unchanged from when his grandfather was a boy, posing uncomfortably for a black and white photograph in his great-grandparents’ kitchen, that later became his grandparents’ own kitchen, as he never did move out of the old house. But things did change. After years and years of warnings from scientists, and other signs, such as heatwaves and periods of prolonged rains, rising sea levels and more and more people fleeing their home countries because of drought and flooding, and the wars that broke out when resources became scarce, even Reuben in his little enclave in a remote corner of the Brecklands of rural Norfolk could see the change. Summers were hotter and longer, winters warmer and wetter. There were subtle changes in the vegetation and the insect population. Parts of the coast disappeared under the rising sea, and were lost.

Reuben’s mission was to adapt the crops to these changes and work out a successful system to sustain the farm. He experimented with different strains of vegetable and grain, planted rice and olive trees to see how they fared in the ever changing climate, and introduced other breeds of sheep, cattle and goats into the herds to make the offspring better adapted to the weather conditions. Reuben, who had hardly ever read a book in his life unless under protest, began to read pages and pages of scientific documents about geology, organic and adaptive farming, animal husbandry and climatology. His parents were surprised, but pleased, because Reuben knew what he was doing. The changes he introduced saved the farm from bankruptcy, which threatened others who had not adapted quickly enough, and changed it from an agricultural plant that was almost an industry, into an intricate, organic structure that took advantage of the changing climate and was interwoven with the natural habitat around it. Life, in Reuben’s view, could not have been better. But outside his little world, it was getting dark and dangerous.**  
*

The evening after we had been to the village, after he had come back from the copse, Reuben kissed me. He was in my room just before going to bed, something he did every night after he had more or less declared his feelings for me, and we were sitting on my bed. There was always a lot of tension in the air when we sat together on the bed in the evenings, both in pyjamas. Reuben’s hair was tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, and the thought of his body under the thin nightclothes was driving me half mad. We were talking idly about the weather, and why the chickens were laying so badly, and what we were supposed to do without a cockerel. Then he suddenly leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. It was so unexpected and so quick that I didn’t really have time to respond before he pulled back and continued talking as if nothing at all had happened.

I pretended to listen while he talked, but actually I was savouring the brief taste of his lips on mine. I wondered whether I could just lean forward and answer the kiss with one of my own, but instead I stared at his lips, feeling excitement and frustration build inside me. He must have noticed, because he leaned forward again, and touched my lips with his, lingering this time. I pressed back a little, and put a hand loosely on his shoulder to encourage him, but not to make him feel pressured. His lips parted under mine, and I carefully swiped them with my tongue to see how he would react. They parted some more. Tentatively, I entered his mouth with my tongue, and felt his meet mine. It was difficult to keep calm, I wanted very badly to just pull him into my arms and kiss him passionately, but I had to let him set the pace. He moved closer, so close that I could feel the heat from his body on my own. I ran a hand through his hair, he responded with a moan in the back of his throat. I put a hand on his back, and he moved closer still, our bodies touching now.

Then the door was thrown open and we both jumped, and opened our eyes. Mark was standing wild-eyed in the doorway.  
“Sorry,” he panted, “but it’s an emergency. I went for a breath of fresh air before bed. Something’s burning, and I think it’s part of the fence. You should grab the guns and come quickly.”

Reuben propelled himself out of my room and fetched the guns in lightening speed. He was halfway down the stairs before I had even gathered my wits about me enough to follow him. Mark had gone on ahead, leading the way, but as soon as we were outside the farmhouse, where Clare was waiting for us, I could smell the smoke and already see the orange glow in the distance. Not missing a beat, Reuben thrust one of the rifles at Clare and set off at a gallop in the direction of the fire.

I suppose I felt a little hurt that Reuben had given the second gun to Clare, but on the other hand, she had always been the most competent of all of us, and she seemed to know what she was doing. Reuben had given her a handful of cartridges, and she loaded one while she was running after him. I could never have done that. She must have known what to do, or else Reuben must have shown her at some point. They had spent so much time together.  
Reuben was already at the fence, taking aim, when I got there. There was the sound of voices on the other side, and spitting flames fiercely devouring a portion of the fence, and licking at the trees behind. Luckily, due to the wet weather, the fire was slow to spread and would probably fizzle out at some point, but not before it had eaten a hole in the fence large enough to get through.

“The trip wires,” I hissed at Reuben, “they will still trigger the tripwires, won’t they?”

“I hope so,” he responded grimly, “but we don’t want to be near them when they do. It depends how many of them are out there.”

“Do you think it’s a random attack,” Mark asked, “or do you think that this was something premeditated, someone who didn’t just stumble upon us, but someone who has known we were here for a while?” Reuben shrugged, squinting into the bright fire.

“I wish I knew,” he answered, “I hope it’s random. Anything planned would be far more sinister.”

“They must have seen us going to the village,” Clare hazarded, perhaps they followed us.” Reuben kept his eye on the fire.

“They may just have seen the fence and assumed that there was someone, or something worth having behind it.” He looked at me briefly. “That’s what you did, didn’t you, Jasper?” I nodded.

“I saw the fence had had some recent work done to it,” I explained, “and I was desperate, starved of human company. I really wanted to find some sort of order, of civilisation. And I found it. I’m not about to lose it again.” Reuben smiled at me. “I may not be able to shoot,” I told him, “but I’m going over to the chopping block to get the axe.”

“Burning down the fence does not give the impression that it is civilised human company they are seeking,” Mark called after me as went over to get an axe to defend us with.

They must have known that there was someone behind the fence; we had heard their voices so they must have heard ours. Obviously they were not prepared for the fact that we were armed, and at the rate we had been using the cartridges in the past weeks, we wouldn’t be armed for much longer, either. When the fire had died down somewhat, a man burst through the fence, shouting, Reuben was taking aim, but he waited until the man had rushed forward and entangled himself in one of the tripwires. Instantly a cloud of noxious gas emerged, the tang of chloride evident even as far back as we were standing, and the man stumbled and shouted abuse, his hands in front of his eyes and nose. Two more men burst through the fence, both carrying huge sticks as if in attack, and then I noticed the glint of knives in all three men’s hands. The first one was stumbling towards us, but Reuben seemed frozen.  
“Shoot!” I shouted at him, raising the axe, “they’ve all got knives!”

“You chump!” Mark hurled at me, “you utter fool!” Standing in the darkness as we were, it had been impossible for the three intruders to see that we were armed. They stopped, now alerted to the danger by my stupid shout. All three of them were stumbling and coughing because the contents of Reuben’s bleach bomb were still heavy in the air. A shot rang out, then another. The first man fell to the ground. Clare had shot and missed, and then Reuben had shot and apparently hit the first man. The two men turned, and Clare reloaded and shot again, this time felling the second man. Reuben rushed forward after the third man, who was making for the hole in the fence. He shot, and the man fell to the ground.

“Reuben!” I screamed, running after him. He had run straight into the remains of the bleach bomb. He turned, coughing, and stumbled into my arms, dropping the rifle. I picked it up and led him back to where Mark and Clare were standing, their arms around each other, in utter shock.

Reuben was still coughing, leaning heavily against me, Reuben, always so brave and unconcerned for his own safety, made me want to hold him and keep him safe, but I felt so useless. Clare had been the only other one of us who had been of any help to him at all.

“Reuben,” I told him, my arms tightly around him as if I could protect him from the world, “you really need to teach me how to shoot.”

“OK,” he answered hoarsely, and for the first time he just relaxed into my embrace, his face buried in the crook of my neck while I stroked his hair and hugged him tightly. There was nothing sexual in the embrace, I just realised how much I wanted him and needed to keep him safe, and I think he realised for the first time that he was no longer alone in a hostile world that he did not understand.

“How do we know they’re dead, and not just unconscious?” Mark’s voice broke the silence. Reuben pulled away from my embrace gently to look at him.

“They all got a lung full of bleach bomb,” he explained, "even unconscious, they’d be coughing, there is still a cloud of the stuff over there where they are lying.” Reuben cleared his throat. “Well done,” he said to Clare. She nodded.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever killed anyone,” she answered slowly, “it feels weird.”

“It does,” Reuben agreed, “and it does the second, forth, and fifth time, too. I think it always feels bad, unless you are a hardened killer. Unfortunately, it is them or us. If their intentions had been anything but evil, they wouldn’t have forced their way in here, armed with knives and cudgels.”

“Do you think there are more?” Mark asked darkly. “There may have been more of them waiting on the other side of the fence who didn’t come through when they realised we have guns.”

“It’s a long time until dawn,” I said, “we ought to keep watch over the destroyed part of the fence, it’s very dangerous. We can’t repair it in the dark, or go around the outside of the fence to inspect the damage. We are just going to have to watch it until it is light enough to repair it, in case there are more who try to get through.” It started to drizzle again, and we were all freezing in our night clothes. A combination of relief and fear made me tremble.

“I’ll watch,” Reuben offered, “there’s no need for us all to stay out here. There’s an old tent in the barn I can set up here. The rest of you can go inside and get some sleep, or at least keep dry. Maybe one of you could stay awake so that if I need help I can shout.”

“No way,” Mark argued, “we’re all staying here.”

“You and Clare are going back to the farmhouse,” I told him, “Reuben and I are staying here. When we’ve cleared up tomorrow morning, assuming that we have killed all the intruders, Reuben and I can go to bed and you can take over the duties on the farm.”

“Are you sure?” Reuben turned to look at me, “I can do it alone, you don’t need to stay out here.”

“What, and pass up the chance of a romantic evening alone with you in a tent? Are you crazy?” I joked. Reuben laughed, it was a strange sound, but heartening, and it suddenly struck me that he hardly ever laughed at all.

The tent, thankfully, was the kind of festival tent that didn’t need poles or tent hooks to erect, but just taking out of its storage bag and a shake. Clare brought woollen blankets from the house, and Reuben put straw on the bottom.  
“Looks quite comfy,” Mark joked, “enjoy your romantic night under the stars.” He fidgeted a bit, and exchanged a look with Clare. Reuben, who was already settled in the tent and drinking hot chamomile tea from a flask as his throat was sore from the fumes of the bleach bomb, looked up at him questioningly.

“Listen,” Mark said tentatively, “maybe this is the wrong time for this, or maybe it’s exactly the right time. Perhaps there isn’t a right time.” He sighed. “It’s not just because of what happened tonight. Clare and I have been thinking about this.” He shuffled from one foot to the other, uncharacteristically nervous. Clare stepped forward, addressing Reuben.

“Reuben,” she began, “I know you love this farm, and I know your heart’s blood has gone into protecting it. It’s your home, I understand that. When I think of my parent’s house, the place I grew up, it makes me sad, too. But there is a limit to how long you are going to be able to defend this place from outside attackers. One day someone will come along who is armed too, or there will be an attack from more people than you can handle. Even now we don’t know if there were more people behind the attack who might be waiting out there, or who have gone to get reinforcements. It’s not safe to stay here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere,” Reuben growled. I crouched down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, which he swiped away.

“Reuben,” Clare continued, “you saved our lives. Even if you hadn’t we would both love you because you are the bravest, truest and most loyal and trustworthy friend anyone could ever hope for. You’ve been through a horrific time, but you survived. I know you love this place for many reasons, but it’s not safe here. We should go, all of us. Somewhere there must be a place where other people like us have banded together, to save civilisation and protect themselves from the carnage. Norwich is hardly a couple of days walk from here. Let’s pack our stuff and go there.” Reuben snorted.

“I don’t believe there is anything worth looking for at Norwich,” he flared, “as you quite rightly say, it’s only about one and a half day’s walk from here. Why haven’t we heard from them if there really is someone there with a semblance of civilisation?”

“But we have,” Mark interrupted, “the men who attacked us that evening knew about it, and the people you overheard talking in the village did, too. There must be something in that rumour, you had heard it yourself before then.”

“Wishful thinking,” Reuben snapped, “that’s what’s in that rumour.”

“Think about it, Reuben,” Clare urged, “it doesn’t make sense. Look at us, there are already four of us who have found one another. We can’t be the last decent people on earth, there must be many others who are not traipsing the country, killing, burning and destroying everything. There must be little pockets of civilisation all over the place. We have to find one, because the only safety from those humans who have gone feral is in numbers. All I ask is that you think about it.” Reuben looked down at his hands.

“I don’t need to think about it,” he sighed, “I’m never leaving this place. Even if I knew for certain that there were a paradise on earth in Norwich or wherever, I wouldn’t leave this place. I can’t, it’s part of me. I owe it to... I need to defend it. Whatever happens.”

“But what of the future,” Mark came a step closer, trying to catch Reuben’s eye, “how will we survive here indefinitely? Even if we make it that long, what happens when we get older, less able to work hard for food and heat, when the supplies at the village dry up, Reuben, there has to be a Plan B.”

“But it’s not just that,” Clare rejoined, “imagine if there were an attacker left who didn’t come through the fence and who saw what happened tonight and ran away. He’s going to come back with more of them. If for nothing else, they are going to come for the guns they now know we have. Have you any idea how valuable they are?”

“I’m not going,” Reuben said, “I’m not forcing anyone to agree with me, but I’m staying here. You are all free to leave.” He turned half away from me, and I knew who he meant. I put my arm around his shoulders.

“I’m not going either,” I reassured him.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” Reuben growled, and I knew he meant the opposite.

“You don’t have to,” I answered gently, “even if it weren’t the case that I love you and want to be wherever you are; I love this place, too. It’s part of you, I realise that, and that’s why I could never leave it. I’ve worked here with you, tended the animals, harvested the crops, and lived in the shelter of the house. It would feel like betrayal to leave it behind.” I looked up at Clare and Mark. “We’re staying here, whatever happens. I think you’d be safer staying here, too. But you will have to make your own decision. Whatever it is, we wish you the best. You are our friends, and we would be sorry to see you go, but if that is what you believe you have to do, then you will have to take your chance and leave. Now you should go inside, you’ll be drenched. When it gets light we’ll have to set about repairing the fence and disposing of the bodies.” I felt Reuben shiver with revulsion in my arm. “Get some sleep until then.”

“As soon as it’s light, we’ll be out here with some real tea,” Mark said.

“Thanks,” Clare added, “for listening, and for understanding. We’ll think about it. Good night.” We watched them both retiring towards the house.

“Jasper,” Reuben started to say, and his voice was thick.

“Shut up,” I interrupted him, “whatever it is you want to say, it’s not necessary. I meant what I said. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not staying here out of a sense of duty, I’m staying because I want to. I wouldn’t dream of ever leaving. Even if the world went back to normal and I could go back to London and university, I would stay here. And Reuben,” I hesitated, and waited until he looked right at me. “Even if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t leave. I truly love this place. It’s like an extension of you, I do understand that. I’m going to defend it with you, and tomorrow, you are going to show me how to shoot that thing so that I don’t stand by like an idiot the next time we’re in trouble.” Reuben put his head on my shoulder, and his voice was muffled on my shoulder.

“You are no idiot,” he mumbled, “and I love you too. I always did. From the moment you started to cry when I told you that you could stay.” We spent the rest of the night in a tight embrace, listening to the rain pelting down on the tent, and watching in the darkness for a sign of movement beyond the charred remains of the hole in the fence.


	8. Chapter 8

“I wonder why they always seem to appear in threes,“ I mused, while Mark and I shovelled in the last of the soil to cover the bodies of the dead men.  
“Probably just a coincidence,” Mark panted, leaning on his spade.

We had buried the three men near where the other corpses were, the three that had attacked Mark and Clare, and the undisclosed number of other dead bodies that were apparently also buried there. I had insisted that Mark and I dispose of the corpses as I knew that it was harrowing for Reuben. I didn’t enjoy it either, but I wanted to give him a break. He and Clare were repairing the fence and renewing the trip wires. Before they started work closing the gap in the fence, Reuben and I went through the hole to the other side of the fence, looking for any signs of further activity. We found no evidence that anyone had ever been there, because the heavy rain through the night had washed away any footprints there might have been. When we went over to the barn, Reuben and Clare were already there, washing in the warm water we had heated on the stove. Reuben had stripped to the waist, and Mark whistled quietly through his teeth. I eyed him sourly.

“All right, all right,” Mark grinned, “just looking. Hallelujah, it’s the second coming.”

“Shut up,” I told him, but I had to laugh. I thought about what he and Clare had said the night before about leaving. I didn’t want them to go as I had grown to care for them. Mark’s indestructible good humour and off-colour remarks made me laugh, and I loved Clare for her quiet competence and her sensitivity. 

“Finished at the fence?” I took a chance and gently ran a hand down Reuben’s bare back. The skin was enticingly smooth and flawless. He frowned at me, but he didn’t flinch or pull away.

“We nailed the hole shut with planks,” he explained,” of course burning a hole near to the ground was a good method of avoiding the barbed wire on top. We replaced the trip wires and added an extra coil of barbed wire for good measure. It’s as safe as it’s ever going to be.” Mark opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut again. Reuben turned to face him. I think Mark was a bit distracted, because he still hadn’t put his shirt on.

“If you want to go today or tomorrow,” Reuben continued, “we’ll help you to pack your things. At least we can give you a good amount of provisions to take. And if you find nothing at Norwich, which I confidently expect to be the case, we’ll be here waiting for you.”

“Not so fast, Beautiful,” Mark replied, making Reuben roll his eyes and reach for his shirt, “we’re not leaving yet. Firstly, we haven’t decided what we want to do, and secondly, if you’re not going with us, then we are certainly not leaving you when the threat of an attack is imminent, assuming that there were more than three men involved last night. Of course we’re not going to abandon you when you are most in danger. Now go to bed, the two of you, we have work to do here, Molly wants her hay, don’t you?” The horse snickered, as if she had understood Mark. She was always somewhere near Reuben, except at night when she was shut in the barn with the other animals. I had no doubt that she would have followed Reuben into the bedroom if she had been able to. We walked towards the farmhouse, and I had the impression that Reuben was dragging his feet, almost as if he were trying to tell me something.

“Is everything all right, Reuben?” I asked, “aren’t you tired yet?”

“Dog-tired,” he wouldn’t look at me, “but there’s something I want to show you. I mean, if you’re not too tired. Otherwise it can wait until later.”

“Whatever you want to show me, I want to see,” I told him, puzzled. He took my hand, and struck out across the fields. It didn’t take me long to realise where he was going, and my heart started beating in my throat. Here lay part of the enigma that was Reuben. I couldn’t believe he was really taking me there, but it was true, we were heading straight towards the little copse at the far corner of the farm.

Reuben didn’t speak a word while we were walking there, so I didn’t either, afraid to spoil the moment, or give him second thoughts. He didn’t let go of my hand, either, he held it firmly as if he were afraid that I might break away and run back to the farmhouse. He took such big strides with his long legs that I had to take two steps for one of his. When we reached the edge of the little wood, he paused, let go of my hand and turned to look at me.  
“I want to apologise,” he began, “for being so angry when you followed me here. This place is fraught with emotions for me. I’m showing it to you because you have the right to know about me. I won’t be able to tell you everything, because it hurts me too much to relive it, but if you are patient I can try to do my best.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll show you this but I need you not to ask questions of me. Please. If I can, I will try to explain, but I may not be able to. Not yet.” Alarmed by his distraught and emotional appearance, I took his hand again.

“It’s all right, Reuben, you don’t owe me anything. I don’t want you to hurt. I only want you to show me this or tell me whatever it is that is troubling you because I believe that it would help you if you were to share the burden.” Reuben nodded.

“Clare said something very similar,” he answered, “and so we’re here.” He pulled his hand out of mine and led the way through the trees. It was a tiny wood, overgrown and beautiful, the undergrowth still green although it was November, with the ferns swishing against our legs, soft and feathery. We emerged from the trees and out into a clearing. The sun came out from behind a cloud, and suddenly the place was illuminated and beautiful, raindrops quivering in the branches and the late, soulful song of a robin only feet away from us.

It was a kind of cemetery. There were two large, roughly-hewn stones set at the end of two long mounds of soil that were right next to one another. There was a vase on each grave with late dahlias from the garden. The stones had been rounded and cut like tombstones, but they were obviously home-made; stones from the farm somewhere that had been hewn in what must have been hard and painstaking work until they were gravestones. I went a step closer, and the stones were touched by a sliver of sunlight. On one was engraved in slightly off-kilter lettering “Mum”, on the other was the word “Dad”. I felt my eyes tear up and my chest tighten at the thought of Reuben’s labour of love, at the thought of his anguish and loneliness, and at my own pain and bereavement. I didn’t speak, but I reached for his hand and squeezed it. So here was where he went when he didn’t know what to do to combat the fear and sadness, here were the people he talked to when he needed comfort. Dead, the only companionship he had known for goodness knows how long.

There were other mounds, smaller ones, one with a wooden cross and the word “Shep” on it, another with “Fluffy.” A pet dog and a cat perhaps. I couldn’t even look at Reuben, and I half hoped he would speak, half that he wouldn’t. Somehow I didn’t know if I could stand to find out how his parents had died, and what had made him so bleak, fearful and afraid of a human touch.

*

**Reuben had been out with his father all day on one of the fields furthest away from the farmhouse. They had taken a packed lunch with them, and didn’t return to the house at midday as they usually did. Reuben had planted a hardy strain of spelt on the field and they wanted to see how it was coming along. Reuben’s mother, who often accompanied them to the fields, had wanted to stay at home that day and clean the house. They weren’t a family with traditional roles, Reuben’s mother was the best tractor driver among the three of them and knew more about livestock than both of the men, but she also happened to be the only one of them who didn’t like an untidy, dirty house, so she was staying behind that day to house clean. In hindsight, how Reuben wished that he had persuaded her to come with them on that day, or that they had gone home for lunch, instead of picnicking on the verge in the sun, oblivious to the nightmare going on only a few miles away, in their own home.

When Reuben drove the tractor through the gate into the yard, his father casually leaning against the window beside him, something felt wrong. The thought didn’t really register until later. It was too quiet, Molly hadn’t trotted up to the fence to greet them, his mother hadn’t been at the door, waving to them, all these things didn’t enter Reuben’s consciousness, but they made him feel uneasy nonetheless. His father was chatting about whether or not it might be a good idea to try and plant rice on the wet patch of land near the stream, seeing as there was so much rain now in the autumn, but Reuben was only half aware of what he was saying.

It was a strange time of transition, Reuben realised in hindsight. Superficially, much was as it always had been. In the rural areas, most things were unchanged. But change was on its way. Every day the news was about Europe being overwhelmed by refugees, fleeing war and climate change. Although England, Wales and Northern Ireland had left the EU, people were still coming. Border control had more or less broken down. Resources were stretched to the limit, basic commodities, food, heat, electricity, petrol, were getting more expensive by the day. Television and internet worked only sporadically. The electricity went on and off, reminding the older people of their childhood in the 1970s, where everyone kept matches and candles handy in case the electricity cut out. But it didn’t really matter to Reuben, who watched the news with his parents every night if it was on, and researched farm management on the internet, but otherwise wasn’t bothered by the lack of television, internet connection or electricity.

Reuben had heard that in the big cities, people were taking advantage of the chaotic situation and looting shops, destroying buildings and vandalising public property. The crime rate had soared, organised gangs roamed the streets, stealing, raping, breaking into houses and fighting. There were demonstrations every day in London, for better treatment for the refugees, against the refugees being there at all, to force the government to resign, to support the government, for cheaper food, for cleaner water; the police were unable to cope with the masses of people, and at some point apparently gave up. But all that was far away in London, Manchester, Leeds or Liverpool, and Reuben felt safe enough far away from the big cities. But in reality, his little village was only two and a half hours drive away from London, for those who could still afford a car, and food was getting scarce in the capital.

Reuben froze when he felt the barrel of his own hunting rifle pressed against his temple. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his father had been backed against the wall, the second rifle aiming squarely between his eyes. He looked straight at his father, and their eyes met over the shoulder of the man who was taking aim at his father. He couldn’t see who was holding him roughly by the arm and pressing the rifle into his skin as his attacker was behind him, out of view. Time seemed to stop. The only thought in his mind was worry about his mother. Where was she? Who were these people, why were they threatening him and his father, and where was his mother? Reuben became aware that someone was speaking, it sounded as if the voice was from far away, but it was the sound of his heart beating in his head that seemed to block out the noise from the outside world. Two men came into view, both of them tall and broad, dirty and unshaven, men like the ones Reuben had seen rioting and looting on the television. Not the type of person he had ever expected to see in the living room of his own home, except on the television.  
“Bitch killed herself,” one of the men said and laughed, “couldn’t take it anymore.” He nodded over at Reuben’s father. “That her husband? No wonder she couldn’t take a real man.”

It sounded like gibberish, but they were speaking English. What did they mean, what were these people talking about? Reuben felt as if he had stumbled onto the set of one of those strange films that were on late at night with subtitles. He wished there were subtitles to explain to him what this was all about.

“Where’s my wife?” Reuben’s father roared, taking a step towards to two men who had entered.

“No you don’t,” the voice behind Reuben said, getting a tighter grip on his arm, “or this one gets it. Is he your son? He takes after his pretty Mummy, doesn’t he.”

“Handsome,” the man who had spoken first agreed, “I’m not picky, I’ll shove it anywhere. He’ll do.”

What happened next was blurred, and it took Reuben a long time to piece together what it all meant. The two men dragged a body into the living room, it was a naked women and she was covered in blood. Her hair was red with it. It took him a long time to realise that the woman was his mother. Only several days later did he realise that the men must have raped her repeatedly until she could take it no more. She must have pleaded with them to let her go to the bathroom, where she cut her throat with a razorblade from his father’s old cut-throat razor, and chose death over the continuation of the torture the men had subjected her to.

With the rifles aimed at them, he and his father were directed to carry the body to the little wood. At that time there had been no fence around the farm and the wood had been in the middle of the property, and not in the far corner. The men gave Reuben and his father a shovel each and instructed them to dig two graves. Reuben had no idea why they were digging two graves. He was in a daze, he could barely function, and when his father looked at him with tears in his beautiful blue eyes, his eyes that were always gentle, kind and cheerful, Reuben did not comprehend the fear and utter despair there. It was shock, Clare had explained to him later; his brain was struggling to keep up with a situation that life had never prepared him for. He had no template for dealing with what was happening to him.  
He and his father put the body of the woman in one of the graves, the body that had once been his mother and which seemed to have nothing to do with the cheerful, affectionate woman, who had the same big brown eyes as Reuben and always a laugh on her lips. The men instructed them to shovel the soil onto her, at least, Reuben assumed that was what they were saying, because he seemed to have completely lost his ability to comprehend speech. He just did what his father was doing.  
Then his father climbed into the second grave and just stood there. Reuben could not understand why he was doing that.  
“Dad!” he shouted, “come out of there!” His voice sounded thin and reedy, and as if the wind was blowing away all the sound. Someone hit him around the head, presumably with the barrel of the rifle, and he reeled a few steps.

“Don’t hurt him,” he could hear his father repeating over and over, “please let him go. Reuben, go to the village, just go.” But Reuben couldn’t move, he was being held tightly, and his legs felt like jelly.

“You can be thankful that I’m wasting a cartridge on you,” one of the men sneered, and took aim straight at Reuben’s father. Reuben heard his own scream, but he wasn’t aware that he had opened his mouth. His father fell face down in the grave, and there was laughter in Reuben’s ears. One of the men handed Reuben the shovel, and instructed him to fill in the grave. Reuben did so automatically, but he could hardly breath, air wouldn’t fill his lungs and he felt dizzy. He still didn’t understand what had happened, and it took him about a week to comprehend that his parents were gone, dead, had been murdered, and would never come back to save him from the horror that his life had become after a gang of thieving, raping and completely merciless marauders had attacked and taken over the farm that had been his home, and were keeping him there as a slave and a prisoner, unable to flee or to get help.**

All the afternoon, Reuben and I lay in my bed and I held him while he sobbed. I don’t think he had ever cried for the loss of his parents before. After he had told me about the death of his father, he stopped short. I knew there was more to the story, but he was unable to continue. He had managed to speak at last, though, and I knew that it was the first step on the way to helping him cope with his past.  
The last thing I wanted was to take advantage of the situation. Reuben was clinging to me, we were lying in bed. He had never been so close to me. But it was he whose mouth searched for mine and who began kissing me tentatively as if he were trying to kiss away the memory, and he who slid his body so close to mine that I could feel every curve of his lean muscles pressed close to my skin. I kept my touches light, and tried not to restrict his movement in any way. His whole body was quivering in my arms, and I tried to focus on him, rather than on my own urges and needs. It wasn’t easy, I hadn’t had sex for over a year at least, and even including Luke, who I had loved sincerely, I had never been with a man who I loved and desired as much as Reuben. In the end he pulled me to lie on top of him. I gasped to feel his erection pressed against mine through the thin fabric of our nightclothes. I looked down at his beautiful face, and his eyes opened to meet mine, they were sharp and clear as they stared up at me, and his body followed mine in a rhythm that pressed us closer and closer together.

It didn’t take either of us long to come. He was first. I watched his eyes close and saw him draw his lower lip into his mouth as he often did when he was concentrating. It was a beautiful sight to watch him just let go. I kissed his berry-red lips, and felt my own release build from my abdomen down to the tips of my toes and the back of my neck. I hadn’t come like that since I had been a teenager, overcome with lust for a school friend in my bedroom upstairs in my parent’s house, just rubbing against each other in a youthful frenzy until we came.

*

At first, Reuben feigned indifference when, two days later, Mark and Clare informed us of their decision to journey on to Norwich. But I knew different, I could see the look of anguish on his face when he turned away, shrugging. He had strong protective instincts, and to have our two friends going away where he could no longer watch over them was frustrating for Reuben.  
“I’ll keep the kettle on for you,” he said to Mark grumpily, “you’ll be back by the weekend, mark my words. There is nothing at Norwich, I’m sure of it. You’re just endangering your sister unnecessarily, and yourself.”

“Reuben,” Mark tried to explain, “try to understand us. It’s all right for you, you’ve got Jasper. But Clare and I are both young, we’re still looking for someone to fall in love and grow old with. I look at you two and feel bitter. I want that for myself. I’m sure that there is some strapping young blood out there just waiting for me to pleasure him.” Mark grinned, trying to keep it light. When Reuben continued to glare at him, he changed the tone. “Think about it. Clare is still young. She might have a child yet. If there are like-minded people out there, and I say that there must be, we could start all over again, have children, and rebuild what we had. At least, Clare could find a partner and have children, and I could have lots of lovely sex with lots of handsome young men.” Reuben sighed.

“You just can’t be serious, can you?” He snapped at Mark, pushed past him and headed off to the wood. I watched him stride across the fields. He hadn’t been there since he had taken me there, two days ago.

“Reuben!” Clare called after him, “come back. Don’t run away. At least say goodbye.” That stopped Reuben in his tracks, and he turned slowly and trudged back to where Clare and Mark were standing.

“I don’t want you to go,” he admitted quietly, “I don’t want to say goodbye.” He put his head on Clare’s shoulder and let her pet him.

“I promise that we will contact you if we find something or someone at Norwich,” she told him, “and if there is nothing, then we will be back. You have Jasper now, he’ll look after you. Talk to him, promise me that. He can help you, and you can help him. He needs to talk as well.” I came up beside Jasper and put an arm around him.

“I still think you’re wrong,” Reuben barked at Mark.

“You’ll eat your words when I come sashaying up to your gate with three handsome young hunks in attendance,” Mark replied with a smile. Reuben rolled his eyes but I could see that he was almost smiling too. “Anyway, Mark continued, “I know very well that it’s only my cooking that you’ll miss.” Mark turned to me and gestured towards Reuben. “This one is a case of love goes through the stomach, Jasper. Feed him well and he’ll never leave you.” I laughed, and Reuben snorted in amused indignation.

It was horrible to watch Mark and Clare, leave. It was early morning, they wanted to get as far as they could before nightfall. We watched their receding figures disappear behind a clump of bushes. Reuben had given them instructions on how to make for Norwich across country, close enough to the road to use it for orientation, but far enough away to stay hidden from anyone who might be travelling on it. If they went fast and used the evening light as best they could, they would make it in one and a half days. Before they left, Reuben went into the house and returned with one of the rifles and a bag full of cartridges.  
“Here,” he said, thrusting both at Clare,” half each, that’s fair.” Clare looked at him in shock.

“We can’t accept that,” she argued, “you need that. We’ll only be on the road for a couple of days. Please keep it.”

“No,” Reuben growled, “I want you to have it. The road is dangerous. We’ve got one rifle, and that will be enough. If there really is a colony at Norwich, then you can return it one day. And if there isn’t, then you will be back here within four days anyway. So take it.”

It was Reuben’s parting gift, and the most valuable thing he had that he could give to them, apart from his friendship.


	9. Chapter 9

**I had hardly stepped out of the door, when I knew that I should have listened to Anna. Chaos reigned supreme, and there were so many people on the street that it was difficult to find a place to stand on. The minute I tried to press forward in the direction of the nearest Tube station, I was swept off by the crowd in the opposite direction. It took me at least twenty minutes before I could escape the momentum, by which time I had been jostled by the crowd two streets away from my own in the wrong direction. People were shouting and minor fights were breaking out. I soon saw why the crowd had moved in that direction: shop windows were being smashed and people were looting. Due to the crowd surging forward, those who had managed to pile their arms high with largely useless electronic goods and boxes of food from the supermarket were unable to carry their ill-gotten gains off with them, they could either not fight their way through, or others took the loot off them before they could make off with it. At least that gave me the opportunity to free myself from the crowd, and take a route through the back streets towards the Tube station.  
The underground trains were still running, but only about once an hour, if at all. As a consequence, the station was packed with people waiting for a train to come. As there apparently hadn’t been a train there at least for the past two hours judging by the amount of people, I could be pretty sure that Luke was not there. I turned to push my way back up the steps and out onto the street when there was an ear-splitting sound and the ground under my feet seemed to shake. Plaster fell from the ceiling, and there was a strange sound of snapping, cracking, and smashing. I saw then that the tiles on the walls of the passageway were cracking, and some of them had fallen off the walls and had broken on the ground below.

At first I thought it must be an earthquake, but then I heard shouts of “Explosion! Terrorist attack!” overhead and people began to flood down the steps into the underground. I thought I would be crushed to death. Behind me was an almost immovable mass of people, in front of me others surged down the steps, pushing me into the crowd behind. People screamed and fell, and were trampled underfoot. The ground above us was reverberating as something seemed to be repeatedly smacking into it. There were more screams, and the sound of rumbling and smashing above head.

Then it went quiet. There were no more screams or smashes from above, and everyone down below had fallen quiet. All that could be heard were the whimpers and cries of the injured and scared. There was no one surging down the stairs any more. From where I was standing I could just see out of the entrance at the top of the stairs, and it looked as if there were a heavy mist rising. People were beginning to make their way back to the top of the stairs. There were moans of dismay from those who were first to poke their heads out, and then more followed. Some started to cry. The crowd below started to push upward, frantic to get to the entrance and see what was out there. I went with the crowd, and in the half light, illuminated by the occasional street lanterns that were still functioning, and saw how lucky I had been. The heavy mist was in fact dust rising from the rubble that littered the ground. I started to cough, it was difficult to breathe.

The street was covered with bricks, parts of walls, smashed windows, broken furniture and other debris. It was unbelievable that just moments before, it had been packed with people. They were all buried under a thick layer of rubble.

Everyone emerging from the underground seemed to go quiet at the same time. The street looked like photographs I remembered from our history books at school of cities flattened in World War II. One minute, there had been four and five storey buildings lining the roads, a few cabs and cars driving down the road – the bus service had all but ceased to function by that time, and scores and scores of people, all shouting and moving. Now there was nothing. The buildings had crumbled into themselves, now no more than a storey high, and their broken walls had spilled onto the street, covering everything and everyone. It was a wonder that nothing had blocked the Tube entrance.

Even if there had been functioning emergency services, they would have had a job to get through. The rubble was yards deep. There was no way that any vehicle could get through, or helicopter land. Neither was there any chance that anyone could have survived whatever it was. If Luke had been out there, he was dead. I could only hope that he hadn’t been able to get home, and was still at rugby practice, miles away. And that was when it struck me. The buildings all around me were flattened, totally destroyed. I walked out onto the rubble and tried to see what was behind the Tube entrance, a street away.

Gone. The building where I had lived for the past year with Luke and Anna was gone. And with it, Anna.**

*

“That’s terrible, Jasper.” Reuben and I were lying on my bed, I had my head on his chest and he had been playing with my hair while I had been speaking. Reuben had been as good as his word, and had asked me to tell me what happened when I went looking for Luke and had listened carefully while I spoke. He seemed to be plagued by fewer nightmares now.

“Not as terrible as what you went through,” I argued.

“That’s not the point.” He paused. “I heard about that terrorist attack, it was all over the internet. People posted photos and videos of it. The whole area exploded; there were about eight bombs which were all detonated at the same time. Several terrorist organizations claimed that they had done it.”

“Yes, pathetic, isn’t it?” I sneered, “fancy claiming that you have blown up and killed thousands of people. What a great achievement. The problem is that most humans are sick bastards. Scratch the surface, and there’s a monster underneath.”

“Before all this happened,” Reuben said, “I thought everyone was like my parents and my friends, good, kind and gentle. But it’s not true, is it? Most people aren’t like that at all, and probably not even everyone in the village was good. It’s a horrible thought. I mean, before all this happened, did you even suspect that you were surrounded by cruel, evil beasts? But we must have been.”

“The thought did strike me once,” I told him, “when we were talking about Nazi Germany in University, and about how neighbours began to denounce one another for being Jews, or Communists. People, who had been friendly to you for years suddenly became your enemies.” I turned so that I was looking at Reuben, while still lying on his chest. We hadn’t been intimate since that afternoon before Mark and Clare had left. They had been gone for four days now, and I knew that Reuben was constantly thinking about them. I wondered if I dare lean up and kiss him.

He was looking down at me, frowning slightly, and doing that trick of sucking in his lower lip slightly that I found so attractive, so I did just that.

“I can relate to that,” he said, ignoring my kiss, “it must be frightening if your own friends and neighbours suddenly turn against you. It’s bad enough when it’s people you don’t know.”

“It’s a nightmare,” I agreed. I slid up his body a little further, and kissed him again, hoping he would respond. “Thankfully, I found you.”

“Yes,” he responded, turning his head away, so I kissed the side of his neck. I wasn’t going to give up so easily. He shook me off easily and turned on his side with his back to me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling disappointed. I had thought that we had finally progressed beyond that point.

“Nothing,” he muttered into his pillow, “I’m just not in the mood.” I pulled away from him, hurt. I hated the way he would still suddenly retreat into himself and shut me out. I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I contemplated getting up and leaving the room, just to get away from the oppressive atmosphere that had suddenly materialised out of nothing.

“Fine,” I gritted. I knew I shouldn’t be pressuring him, but I couldn’t help it. I stared at his back for a moment, frustration building inside me then he turned slowly and looked at me with his large, liquid eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said in his soft, gentle voice, “I don’t mean to be like this. It’s difficult for me. I’m worried about Clare and Mark, I can’t get them out of my head, and apart from that, I’m not sure how to react. Sometimes when you touch me, other images seem to invade my mind, things that have nothing to do with you. I’m not rejecting you, really I’m not.” I immediately felt bad about my impatience.

“I’m sure they’ll be all right,” I reassured Reuben, but the more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that they would find some kind of community. I had lost faith in humanity, and I knew that Reuben had, too. All the time I had been alone in London and wandering through the countryside, I had not found one attempt at civilised living, and very few humans who were decent. I was pretty sure that Reuben’s outlook was even less optimistic. I stroked his hair out of his face, keeping my touch light. As I let my fingers stroke over his lips, he opened them and sucked my finger into his mouth. The gesture made my groin ache, and I watched fascinated as Reuben fellated my finger.

“Reuben,” I said, hoarsely. Holding my gaze, he released my finger and rolled on top of me.

“Is this what you want?” he asked in a quiet voice, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Don’t do this just to please me,” I warned, feeling weak as he ground down against me.

“Why not?” he asked, his lips almost on mine.

“I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to, or which upsets you.” I pushed him back a little so that I could see his face properly.

“But I want to make you happy,” he grinned, grinding down against me again, making me groan. I snaked my arms around his waist, and pulled him closer. He didn’t look upset as he pushed down against me again. Neither did he protest when I let my hand wander over his buttocks, they were small and perfectly round, pure muscle that almost fit in the palm of my hand. He rubbed his groin against mine, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His skin felt warm when I reached up to undo the buttons of his shirt. He didn’t protest when I ran a hand down his stomach, my other hand still resting on his rump, encouraging him to grind against me. His hazel eyes were on mine until I had to close them, orgasm washing over me from the friction he was producing as he rubbed his member against mine. I let the feeling flow over me, and when my beating heart had calmed down and I could reopen my eyes, he was still looking down at me with an expression of deep affection.

“You didn’t come,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” he smiled, “this was for you.” He kissed me on the tip of the nose gently, and then rolled off me, lying on his side with his back to me. I felt a sense of loss, and moved to spoon up behind him. I kissed the back of his neck gently to see if he would push me away, then when he didn’t, I put my arm around his waist from behind, and began to gently caress his stomach, as his shirt was still open. He didn’t move away, so I began to let my fingers wander slightly lower to his abdomen. He pushed back against me then, his buttocks pressing against my now flaccid member, shocking it into action again. Tracing the outlines of his member through his trousers, I felt him harden under my fingers. He moaned, so I carefully opened his fly and slid my fingers inside. I was very much aware that I was feeling his naked flesh for the first time. Then I caressed him, gently and first, and when he reacted I stroked him more firmly. Feeling his skin under my fingers and the pressure of his body against mine while I brought him to orgasm was so unexpectedly erotic that I came again shortly after I felt him spill into my hands.

His chest heaved, and I waited until his breathing had evened out again. He hadn’t turned to look at me as he was still lying on his side, facing away from me with his eyes closed.

“Are you all right?” I asked. I began to worry that I had gone too far. Although he hadn’t told me any details, I was sure that he had been raped by the men who had killed his parents and I was unsure whether I had perhaps triggered his memories. I looked down at him, and watched his eyelashes flutter. He looked up at me and smiled.

“I’m very all right,” he said, turning on his back to look me full in the face, “unexpectedly so, in fact. I didn’t think...” he cut off.

“You didn’t think?” I urged. He swallowed.

“I didn’t think I would ever be able to enjoy this anymore,” he said quietly, “but I did.”

“This as in sex?” I asked tentatively. He nodded. “I’m glad,” I continued, “very glad.” I leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“I’m a bit sticky and so are the sheets,” he complained.

“Never mind.” I pulled his open shirt over his shoulder and kissed the bare skin. exposing his smooth, perfect torso. I leaned over him and kissed his stomach.

“You’re so...” I began.

“Don’t,” he interrupted, “please don’t say that.”

“I love you,” I said instead.

“I love you too.” He squirmed. “Jasper? We need to go to the village.” Reuben fixated a point just above my right shoulder. He seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

“It’s pouring down,” I argued, “what do we need from there? I think we have enough lamp oil and washing powder to last us at least three more weeks.”

“Not today,” he continued, “when it stops raining. If we want to continue this, we will need to stay safe.”

“Continue this?” I groped. I had no idea what he meant.

“This,” he repeated, indicating himself and me, “what we’ve been doing.”

“Sex?” I hazarded. He nodded. “I’m missing the connection with safety and the village.” Reuben blushed.

“We might want to take this further,” he looked at me questioningly, “at which point we need to use something that keeps us safe.” I shook my head.

“If you are talking about sex, yes, I would love to take it as far as you want, or are able to. I’m unsure what you mean by using something to keep us safe, though.”

“I mean condoms,” he blushed even more, “we shouldn’t have unprotected sex.” At last the penny dropped.

“You want us to go to the village to get condoms,” I reiterated, “I see. But I was always safe with Luke. I never cheated on him, but I was not so sure whether he was as committed, so we always used condoms and were tested regularly. I’m as sure as I can be that I’m clean.” Reuben shot me an almost desperate look.

“I didn’t mean you,” he answered, his expression distraught.

“You?” I stared at him. Then I realised what he meant. “You mean because of the men who attacked the farm?” Reuben nodded and looked down at his hands. “They raped you,” I said slowly, “didn’t they?” I pulled him close and stroked his hair.

“All of them,” he confirmed, “repeatedly.” It was the first time that he actually said out loud what I had known to be true since Mark first guessed what was wrong with Reuben.

“I don’t really care,” I spoke against his hair, “if you get ill and die, then I don’t want to live anyway.”

“No,” Reuben contradicted firmly, “I don’t want to hurt you. If I am infected with something, then you are the last person I want to pass it on to. There are condoms in a dispenser in the village store. No doubt there are others in dressing tables or bedside cabinets, I’ve never really looked and none of the marauders were interested in keeping safe or healthy. It’s not that much of an effort to go there and get a year’s supply or something. If I’m still well after a year has passed, we might conclude that I am healthy. But I am not running the risk of infecting you with any kind of illness. Even if there weren’t the risk of AIDS, even quite commonplace STDs have no cure now. We must do everything we can to protect our health. And anyway, we are nearly out of tea bags. We might find some more hidden somewhere.”

Exhausted by his effort, he lay back on the bed and looked adorable with his shirt still hanging open and pulled over one shoulder. It was obviously all very embarrassing for him, his ears were still pink. I tried to focus on the fact that he was apparently willing and able to have sex with me. The thought that he had been raped and might have contracted a disease was not nearly as welcome.

The next day dawned bright and dry. It was the end of November, and there was not much to do on the farm, so there was no reason for us not to venture into the village. It would take Reuben’s mind off Clare and Mark, and I was looking forward to spending the winter in bed with Reuben as much as possible. We fed the animals and let them out of the barn to roam, shouldered our backpacks, took some lunch and some water, and set out towards the village. ´

I don’t know why, perhaps it was the newly established intimacy between us, or perhaps it was just because the sun was shining and the day was crisp and bright, but we were in high spirits when we set out and did not exercise our customary caution. I found some conkers and pelted Reuben with them, and he shoved some of their prickly shells down the back of my sweater, then slapped me on the back, and ran away laughing. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that ever before. His eyes were shining, his cheeks flushed. He looked happy and more beautiful than he had ever looked before, even including the very first time I set eyes on him and could hardly believe that what I was seeing was real. We felt invincible, as if nothing could possibly harm us, and for a very brief moment I almost forgot that the nightmare of the past two years had happened to us all. I could almost believe that Reuben and I were on a hike, and that in the evening, when we got back home, I would call my Mum and Dad and tell them how much fun I was having, and that I had fallen in love, and then Reuben and I would watch the news on the telly and read a newspaper online.

Despite our carefree mood, Reuben did insist that we crouch behind the wall in the churchyard before we approached the village. He didn’t seem very worried though and indeed, everything was quiet, squirrels were playing in the trees and a blackbird was singing very quietly, although it was so late in the year.

We climbed over the wall and made our way to the village shop. The heavy rains of the past weeks had taken their toll, there were puddles of water inside where it had rained through the open door, and the shop smelled musty and mouldy. Somehow it looked even more jumbled and messy than before, and I saw Reuben frown.

“Someone has certainly been here since we were here last.” He looked around nervously.

“Probably the men who attacked us,” I answered, “Clare did suggest they might have seen us here and followed us.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Reuben said slowly. I thought he was going to say more, but he apparently thought better of it.

There was a condom dispenser machine in a dark corner of the shop, no doubt to spare the sensibilities of the shoppers. We had no coins to operate it with, but Reuben had brought a small crowbar and managed to prise the lid off the machine. Apparently, not many of the villagers had availed themselves of the offer, because there were at least twenty five packets inside, all still not past their sell-by date. I shovelled them into my bag while Reuben went in search of some bars of soap.

“I don’t know what we will do when the soap and washing powder runs out,” he said worriedly. Hygiene was one of Reuben’s main concerns, and rightly so.

“We’ll think of something,” I answered, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him, to which he responded enthusiastically. Encouraged, I shoved my leg between his, and my tongue into his mouth. Then he froze, and suddenly turned his face away.

“Reuben,” I whispered in his ear.

“Quiet,” he snapped at me, “listen!” He stood perfectly still, facing away from me, his hands clutching my shoulders.

“I can’t hear anything,” I protested.

“Just shut up, Jasper,” he growled at me. I was about to sulk when I did hear something. First, it was a quiet whimper, then someone moaned something that sounded like “Help!” Reuben shot me a look to confirm that I had heard it, too, and I stepped back from him.

“Someone’s in trouble,” I hissed. He nodded.

“It might be a trap. I think we should just head back to the farm.” Reuben looked at me questioningly.

What if it’s a situation like the one we found Clare and Mark in? You didn’t run away then!” I couldn’t believe that he was seriously contemplating just turning away and leaving.

“This is a man,” Reuben frowned, “and the situation with Clare and Mark was an obvious one. I don’t know what to make of this. We could be in danger.”

“He must have heard us or he wouldn’t be calling out,” I answered. “We can’t just leave. Let’s at least try to sneak a look and assess the situation.”

“That might be exactly what we are supposed to do,” Reuben said bleakly, “but you’re right, I suppose we can’t just turn our backs and go. That would make us no better than them.”

We left the village shop, moving quietly and edging along the wall, and went in the direction the cries were coming from, louder and clearer now. Reuben sighed and shot me a look, I knew he was frightened and I wondered if he wasn’t perhaps right, and that we should just leave. But if it was a trap then that would hardly help, the farm was within walking distance and it would be best not to have people trekking the area, looking for us. Reuben stopped, leaning against a wall, took his backpack off and took out the rifle. I nodded at him, and he secured it in his belt, invisible under his jacket, but so that he could get hold of it should the need arise. The last thing we wanted was for anyone to know that we had firearms.

The calls were coming from one of the houses, one that we had never been inside because Reuben had said that the ceiling had half collapsed and there was a danger that more of the beams might have come down. There was a real probability that someone had got hurt or trapped inside the cottage. Reuben offered me one of his I-told-you-so glances, and we sneaked up to the door. There was nobody to be seen in the hallway, the calls were coming from what had once presumably been the living room. Now there was a double danger, one that the person inside was a marauder, and two that the ceiling might cave in on us. Reuben pushed me back but I held on to his arm.

“No!” I hissed in his ear, “I’m coming too!” Reuben sighed and shook his head, but I clutched his arm and followed him into the hallway. Through the open door we could see into the living room. Plaster from the ceiling was all over the floor, covering the upturned furniture and the mess that once had been someone’s home. The end of a large beam was visible from where we were standing, perhaps someone had been trapped under it when it fell.

“Help me,” the voice was saying, “I know there’s someone here, please help me!”

Reuben and I exchanged a look, and then he shrugged and stepped into the room with me right behind him.

Lying on his back on the floor, his leg trapped under a beam, was a man whose age I couldn’t guess as his face was covered in a thick beard. His clothing was dirty, his hair uncut. In fact, I suppose he looked pretty much like I did when Reuben first saw me. I felt Reuben stiffen and I knew without him having to tell me that he didn’t like what he saw.


End file.
